red. For it was the
Game that had been questioned, its verity and worth, the Game itself, the
biggest thing in the world--or what had been the biggest thing in the
world until that chance afternoon and that chance purchase in
Silverstein's candy store, when Genevieve loomed suddenly colossal in his
life, overshadowing all other things. He was beginning to see, though
vaguely, the sharp conflict between woman and career, between a man's
work in the world and woman's need of the man. But he was not capable of
generalization. He saw only the antagonism between the concrete, flesh-
and-blood Genevieve and the great, abstract, living Game. Each resented
the other, each claimed him; he was torn with the strife, and yet drifted
helpless on the currents of their contention.

His words had drawn Genevieve's gaze to his face, and she had pleasured
in the clear skin, the clear eyes, the cheek soft and smooth as a girl's.
She saw the force of his argument and disliked it accordingly. She
revolted instinctively against this Game which drew him away from her,
robbed her of part of him. It was a rival she did not understand. Nor
could she understand its seductions. Had it been a woman rival, another
girl, knowledge and light and sight would have been hers. As it was, she
grappled in the dark with an intangible adversary about which she knew
nothing. What truth she felt in his speech made the Game but the more
formidable.

A sudden conception of her weakness came to her. She felt pity for
herself, and sorrow. She wanted him, all of him, her woman's need would
not be satisfied with less; and he eluded her, slipped away here and
there from the embrace with which she tried to clasp him. Tears swam
into her eyes, and her lips trembled, turning defeat into victory,
routing the all-potent Game with the strength of her weakness.

"Don't, Genevieve, don't," the boy pleaded, all contrition, though he was
confused and dazed. To his masculine mind there was nothing relevant
about her break-down; yet all else was forgotten at sight of her tears.

She smiled forgiveness through her wet eyes, and though he knew of
nothing for which to be forgiven, he melted utterly. His hand went out
impulsively to hers, but she avoided the clasp by a sort of bodily
stiffening and chill, the while the eyes smiled still more gloriously.

"Here comes Mr. Clausen," she said, at the same time, by some
transforming alchemy of woman, presenting to the