how she had said, "Mr. Durant wins because he doesn't
care about the game." Because he cared--cared so supremely--was he
going to lose?

There were so many things in Frida that he had not reckoned with.
She was an extraordinary mixture of impulse and reserve, and she had
astonished him more than once by her readiness to give herself away;
but beyond a certain point--the point of view in fact--her
self-possession was complete. Still, he left no argument untried,
for there was no knowing--no knowing what undiscovered spring he
might chance to touch in that rich and subtle nature.

Her self-possession was absolute. She parried his probe with a
thrust.

"It is your own fault if my experience isn't complete. You should
have told me these things five years ago. As you say, nobody else
has instructed me since."

"I dare say they've done their best. Of course, other men have loved
you----"

"They haven't----"

"But I believe my love would be worth more to you than theirs, for
the simple reason that I understand you too well to insist on it. I
should always know how much and how little you wanted. For we are
rather alike in some ways. I would leave you free."

"I know you would. I am sure. And I would--I would so gladly--but I
can't! You see, Maurice, I _have_ loved you."

"All the more reason----"

"All the less. I knew what you thought and felt about me, and it
made no difference; I loved you just the same, because I understood.
Then I had to fight it. It was hard work, but I did it very
thoroughly. It will never have to be done again. Do you see?"

Yes; he saw very plainly. If Frida could not love him there was
nobody but himself to blame. He also saw the advantage she had given
him. She had owned that she had loved him, and he had hardly
realized the full force of the pluperfect. What had been might be
again. She was a woman in whom the primordial passion, once
awakened, is eternal.

He pressed his advantage home.

"And why had you to fight so hard?"

"Because the thing was stronger than myself, and I wouldn't be
beaten. Because I hated myself for caring for you, as I hate myself
now for not caring."

In her blind pity she laid her fingers on his trembling hand. She
who used to drop his hand as if it had been flame, she should have
known better than to touch him now.

He looked at her with hot hungry eyes. His brain in its feverish
intensity took note of trifles--the tortuous pattern of the braid on
h