th an animated glance, and, though he was fond of boasting
that he was the only man he knew who never flattered women, Gerty was
conscious of a sudden flush and the pleased conviction that she must be
looking her very best. It was a trick of his, she knew, to flatter, as
it were, by paradox, to deal with delicate inuendos and to compliment by
pleasant contradiction. She had not been a woman of the world without
reaping the reward of knowledge, and now, as she leaned back and smiled
brilliantly into his face, she knew that, despite the apparent
abruptness of his beginning, they would descend inevitably to the play
of personal suggestion. His measure had been taken long ago, she told
herself, and lay tucked away in the receptacle which contained the
varied neatly labelled patterns of her masculine world; but at the same
time she was perfectly aware that within five minutes he would pique
afresh both her interest and her liking. "You can't warm yourself by
fireworks," she had once said to him, and a moment later had paused to
wonder at the intrinsic meaning of a daring phrase which he had spoken.

Still sipping his coffee, he regarded her with the blithe humour which
lent so great a charm to his expression.

"I don't see why you object to exercise when it saves my life," he
observed as he took up a cigarette and then bent forward to hold it to
the flame of the alcohol lamp.

"I don't object except when it bores me out of mine," responded Gerty
lightly.

He was still smiling when he raised his head.

"You used to like it yourself," he persisted.

"I used to like a great many things which bore me now."

"Yes, you used to like me," he retorted gaily.

She had so confidently expected the remark, had left so frank an opening
for it, that while she watched him from beneath languid eyelids a little
cynical quiver disturbed her lips. The game was as old as the Garden of
Eden, she had played it well or ill from her cradle, and at last she had
begun to grow a trifle weary. She had found the wisdom which is hidden
at the core of all Dead Sea fruit, and the bitter taste of it was still
in her mouth. The world for her was a world of make-believe--of lies so
futile that their pretty embroidered shams barely covered the ugly
truths beneath, and, though she had pinned her faith upon falsehood and
had made her sacrifice to the little gods, there were moments still when
the undelivered soul within her awoke and stirred as a child st