on rose, offering the splendor of its maturity to be plucked. Let
her have the courage to know that its end and aim and fulfilment lay in
being plucked and gloriously worn before the coming of the inevitable
end! Thus and thus only could one find certainty, before death came, of
having lived as deeply as lay in one to live.

* * * * *

Through the glowing pride and defiance with which she felt herself rise
to the challenge, felt herself strong to break and surmount all
obstacles within and without, which stood in the way of that fulfilment
of her complete self, she had heard . . . the slightest of
trivialities . . . a thought gone as soon as it was conceived . . .
nothing of the slightest consequence . . . harmless . . .
insignificant . . . yet why should it give off the betraying clink of
something flawed and cracked? . . . She had heard . . . it must have
come from some corner of her own mind . . . something like this, "Set
such an alternative between routine, traditional, narrow domestic life,
and the mightiness and richness of mature passion, before a modern, free
European woman, and see how quickly she would grasp with all her soul for
passion."

What was there about this, the veriest flying mote among a thousand
others in the air, so to awaken in Marise's heart a deep vibration of
alarm? Why should she not have said that? she asked herself, angry and
scared. Why was it not a natural thought to have had? She felt herself
menaced by an unexpected enemy, and flew to arms.

Into the rich, hot, perfumed shrine which Vincent's remembered words and
look had built there about her, there blew a thin cool breath from the
outside, through some crack opened by that casual thought. Before she
even knew from whence it came, Marise cried out on it, in a fury of
resentment . . . and shivered in it.

With no apparent volition of her own, she felt something very strong
within her raise a mighty head and look about, stirred to watchfulness
and suspicion by that luckless phrase.

She recognized it . . . the habit of honesty of thought, not native to
Marise's heart, but planted there by her relation with Neale's stark,
plain integrity. Feeding unchecked on its own food, during the long
years of her marriage it had grown insensibly stronger and stronger,
till now, tyrant and master, with the irresistible strength of conscious
power, it could quell with a look all the rest of her nature, rich in
col