nts with you?" he asked after a moment.

"Counts? How?"

"In your affections. What prepossesses you?"

She laughed audaciously: "Your traits--some of them--all of them
that you reveal. You must be aware of that much already, considering
everything--"

"Then, what is it I lack? Where do I fail?"

"But you don't lack--you don't fail! I ask nothing more of you, Mr.
Siward."

"A man from whom a woman desires nothing is already convicted of
insufficiency. ... You would recognise this very quickly if I made love to
you."

"Is that the only way I am to discover your insufficiency, Mr. Siward?"

"Or my sufficiency. ... Have you enough curiosity to try?"

"Oh! I thought you were to try." Then, quickly: "But I think you have
already experimented; and I did not notice your shortcomings. So there
is no use in pursuing that line of investigation any farther--is there?"

And always with her the mischief lay in the trailing upward inflection;
in the confused sweetness of her eyes, and their lovely uncertainty.

One slim white hand held the rose against her cheek; the other lay idly
on her knee, fresh and delicate as a fallen petal; and he laid both
hands over it and lifted it between them.

"Mr. Siward, I am afraid this is becoming a habit with you." The gay
mockery was not quite genuine; the curve of lips too sensitive for a
voice so lightly cynical.

He smiled, bending there, considering her hand between his; and after a
moment her muscles relaxed, and bare round arm and hand lay abandoned to
him.

"Quite flawless--perfect," he said aloud to himself.

"Do you--read hands?"

"Vaguely." He touched the smooth palm: "Long life, clear mind, and"--he
laughed--"heart supreme over reason! There is written a white lie--but a
pretty one."

"It is no lie."

He laughed again, unconvinced.

"It is the truth," she said, seriously insisting and bending sideways
above her own hand where it lay in his. "It is a miserable confession to
admit it, but I'm afraid intelligence would fight a losing battle with
heart if the conflict ever came. You see, I know, having nobody to study
except myself all these years. ... There is the proof of it--that selfish,
smooth contour, where there should be generosity. Then, look at the
tendency of imagination toward mischief!" She laid her right forefinger
on the palm of the left hand which he held, and traced the developments
arising in the Mount of Hermes. "Is it not a horrid hand, Mr. Siward