lossom. From the mass she chose a spray, and set it in the bosom of her
dress, then got to her feet and moved slowly toward him. "You're not
wearing my colors to-night." This was directed to the white rose in his
buttonhole. He took it out and tossed it into the fireplace.

"Pink's the only wear," declared the girl gayly. With delicate fingers
she detached a little luxuriant twig of the bloom from her breast, and
set it in the place where the rose had been. Her face was close to his.
He could feel her hands above his heart.

"Please," she breathed.

"What?" He was playing for time and reason.

"For Kathleen Pierce. Please."

His hand closed over hers. "You are bribing me."

If she said it again, she knew that he would kiss her. So she spoke,
with lifted face and eyes of uttermost supplication. "For me. Please."

Men had kissed Esme Elliot before; for she had played every turn of the
game of coquetry. Some she had laughed to scorn and dismissed; some she
had sweetly rebuked, and held to their adoring fealty. She had known the
kiss of headlong passion, of love's humility, of desperation, even of
hot anger; but none had ever visited her lips twice. The game, for her,
was ended with the surrender and the avowal; and she protected herself
the more easily in that her pulses had never been stirred to more than
the thrill of triumph.

In Hal Surtaine's arms she was playing for another stake. So intent had
she been upon her purpose that the guerdon of the modern Venus Victrix,
the declaration of the lover, was held in the background of her mind.
For a swift, bewildering moment, she felt his lips upon hers, the
gentlest, the tenderest pressure, instantly relaxed: then the sudden
knowledge of him for what he was, a loyal and chivalrous gentleman thus
beguiled, burned her with a withering and intolerable shame.
Simultaneously she felt her heart go out to him as never yet had it gone
to any man, and in that secret shock to her maidenhood, the coquette in
her waned and the woman waxed.

She drew back, quivering, aghast. With all the force of this new and
tumultuous emotion, she hoped for her own defeat: yearned over him that
he should refuse that for which she had unworthily pressed. Yet, such is
the perversity of that strange struggle against the great surrender,
that she gathered every power of her sex to gain the dreaded victory. By
an effort she commanded her voice, releasing herself from his arms.

"Wait. Don't speak