Chambers Robert William
The Danger Mark
"Once," he said very low, "you admitted that you dare go anywhere with me. Do you remember?"
"Yes."
"Those are your rooms, I believe," pointing to a closed door far down the south corridor.
"Yes."
"Take me there now."
"I—cannot do that–"
"Yes, you can. You must."
"Now?—Duane."
"Yes, now—now! I tell you our time is now if it ever is to be at all. Don't waste words."
"What do you want to say to me that cannot be said here?" she asked in consternation.
He made no answer, but she found herself on her feet and moving slowly along beside him, his hand just touching her arm as guide.
"What is it, Duane?" she asked fearfully, as she laid her hand on the knob and turned to look at his altered face.
He made no answer. She hesitated, shivered, opened the door, hesitated again, slowly crossed the threshold, turned and admitted him.
The western sun flooded the silent chamber of rose and gray; a breeze moved the curtains, noiselessly; the scent of flowers freshened the silence.
There was a divan piled with silken cushions; he placed several for her; she stood irresolute for a moment, then, with a swift, unquiet side glance at him, seated herself.
"What is it?" she asked, looking up, her face beginning to reflect the grave concern in his.
"I want you to marry me, Geraldine."
"Is—is that what–"
"Partly. I want you to love me, too. But I'll attend to that if you'll marry me—I'll guarantee that. I—I will guarantee—more than that."
She was still looking up, searching his sombre face. She saw the muscles tighten along the jaw; saw the grave lines deepening. A sort of bewildered fear possessed her.
"I—am not in love with you, Duane." She added hastily, "I don't trust you either. How could I–"
"Yes, you do trust me."
"After what you have done to Rosalie–"
"You know that all is square there. Say so!"
She gazed at the floor, convinced, but not answering.
"Do you believe I love you?"
She shook her head, eyes still on the floor.
"Tell me the truth! Look at me!"
She said with an effort: "You think you care for me.... You believe you do, I suppose–"
"And you believe it, too! Give me my chance—take your own!"
"My chance?"—with a flash of anger.
"Yes; take it, and give me mine. I tell you, Geraldine, we are going to need each other desperately some day. I need you now—to-morrow you'll need me more; and the day after, and after that in perilous days to follow our need will be the greater for these hours wasted—can't you understand by this time that we've nothing to hold us steady through the sort of life we're born to except—each other–"
His voice suddenly broke; he dropped down on the couch beside her, imprisoning her clasped hands on her knees. His emotion, the break in his voice, excited them both.
"Are you trying to frighten me and take me by storm?" she demanded, forcing a smile. "What is the matter, Duane? What do you mean by peril?… You are scaring me–"
"Little Geraldine—my little comrade! Can't you understand? It isn't only my selfish desire for you—it isn't all for myself!—I care more for you than that. I love you more deeply than a mere lover! Must I say more to you? Must I even hurt you? Must I tell you what I know—of you?"
"W-what?" she asked, startled.
He looked at her miserably. In his eyes she read a meaning that terrified her.
"Duane—I don't—understand," she faltered.
"Yes you do. Let's face it now!"
"F-face what?" Her voice was only a whisper.
"I can tell you if you'll love me. Will you?"
"I don't understand," she repeated in white-lipped distress. "Why do you look at me so strangely? And you tell me that I—know.... What is it that I know? Couldn't you tell me? I am—" Her voice failed.
"Dear—do you remember—once—last April that you were—ill?… And awoke to find yourself on your own bed?"
"Duane!" It was a cry of terror.
"Dearest! Dearest! Do you think I have not known—since then—what has troubled you—here–"
She stared at him in crimsoned horror for an instant, then with a dry sob, bowed her head and covered her face with desperate hands. For a moment her whole body quivered, then she collapsed. On his knees beside her he bent and touched with trembling lips her arms, her knees, the slim ankles desperately interlocked, the tips of her white shoes.
"Dearest," he whispered brokenly, "I know—I know—believe me. I have fought through worse, and won out. You said once that something had died out in me—while I was abroad. It did not die of itself, dear. But it left its mark.... You say self-control is only depravity afraid.... That is true; but I have made my depravity fear me. I can do what I please with it now; I can tempt it, laugh at it, silence it. But it cost me something to make a slave of it—what you saw in my face is the claw-mark it left fighting me to the death."
Very straight on his knees beside her he bent again, pressing her rigid knees with his lips.
"I need you, Geraldine—I need all that is best in you; you must love me—take me as an ally, dear, against all that is worst in you. I'll love you so confidently that we'll kill it—you and I together—my strength and yours, my bitter and deep understanding and your own sweet contempt for weakness wherever it may be, even in yourself."
He touched her; and she shuddered under the light caress, still bent almost double, and covering her face with both hands. He bent over her, one knee on the divan.
"Let's pull ourselves together and talk sense, Geraldine," he said with an effort at lightness.
"Don't you remember that bully little girl who swung her fists in single combat and uppercut her brother and me whenever her sense of fairness was outraged? The time has come when you, who were so fair to others, are going to be fair to yourself by marrying me–"
She dropped both hands and stared at him out of wide, tear-wet eyes.
"Fair to myself—at your expense, Duane?"
"What do you mean? I love you."
"Am I to let you—you marry me—knowing—what you know? Is that what you call my sense of fairness?" And, as he attempted to speak:
"Oh, I have thought about it already!—I must have been conscious that this would happen some day—that—that I was capable of caring for you—and it alarmed me–"
"Are you capable of loving me?"
"Duane, you must not ask me that!"
"Tell me!"
But she pushed him back, and they faced each other, her hands remaining on his shoulders. She strove piteously to endure his gaze, flinched, strove to push him from her again—but the slender hands lay limply against him. So they remained, her hands at intervals nervously tightening and relaxing on his shoulders, her tearful breath coming faster, the dark eyes closing, opening, turning from him, toward him, searching, now in his soul, now in her own, her self-command slipping from her.
"It is cowardly in me—if I do it," she said in the ghost of a voice.
"Do what?"
"Let you risk—what I m-might become."
"You little saint!"
"Some saints were depraved at first—weren't they?" she said without a smile. "Oh, Duane, Duane, to think I could ever be here speaking to you about—about the horror that has happened to me—looking into your face and giving up my dreadful secret to you—laying my very soul naked before you! How can I look at you–"
"Because I love you. Now give me the right to your lips and heart!"
There was a long silence. Then she tried to smile.
"My—my lips? I—thought you took such things—lightly–"
She hesitated, glanced up at him, then began to tremble.
"Duane—if you are in earnest about our—about an engagement—promise me that I may be released if I—think best–"
"Why?"
"I—I might fail–"
"The more need of me. But you can't fail–"
"Yes, but if I should, dear. Will you release me? I cannot—I will not engage myself to you—unless you promise to let me go if I think it best. You know what my word means. Give it back to me if matters go wrong with me. Will you?"
"But I am going to marry you now!" he said with a short, excited laugh.
"Now!" she repeated, appalled.
"Certainly, to make sure of you. We don't need a license in this State. There's a parson at West Gate Village.... I intend to make sure of you now. You can keep it a secret if you like. When you return to town we can have everything en règle—engagement announced, cards, church wedding, and all that. Meanwhile I'm going to be sure of you."
"W-when?"
"This afternoon."
His excitement thrilled her; a vivid colour surged over neck and brow.
"Duane, I did not dream that you cared so much, so truly—Oh, I—I do love you then!—I love you, Duane! I love you!"
He drew her suddenly into his arms, close, closer; she lifted her face; he kissed her; and she gave him her heart with a sob.
"You will wait for m-me, won't you?" she stammered, striving to keep her reason through the delicious tumult that swept her senses. "Before I m-marry you I must be quite certain that you take no risk–"
She looked up into his steady eyes; a passion of tenderness overwhelmed her, and her locked arms tightened around his neck.
"Oh," she whispered, "you are the boy I loved so long, so long ago—my comrade Duane—my own little boy! How was I to know I loved you this way, too? How could I understand!"
Already the glamour of the past was transfiguring the man for her, changing him back into the lad she had ruled so long ago, glorifying him—drawing them together into that golden age where her ears already caught the far cries and laughter of the past.
Now, her arms around him, she looked at him and looked at him as though she had not set eyes on him since then.
"Of course, I love you," she said impatiently, as though surprised and hurt that he or she had ever doubted it. "You always were mine; you are mine! Nobody else could ever have had you—no matter what you did—or what I did.... And nobody except you could ever, ever have had me. That is perfectly plain now.... Oh, you—you darling"—she murmured, drawing his face against hers. Tears sprang to her brown eyes; her mouth quivered.
"You will love me, won't you? Because I'm going quite mad about you, Duane.... I don't think I know just what I'm saying—or what I'm doing."
She drew him closer; he caught her, crushing her in his arms, and she yielded, clung to him for a moment, drew back in flushed resistance, still bewildered by her own passion. Then, into her eyes came that divine beauty which comes but once on earth—innocence awakened; and the white lids drooped a little, and the mouth quivered, surrendering with a sigh.
"You never have, never could love any other man? Say it. I know it, but—say it, sweetheart!"
"Only you, Duane."
"Are you happy?"
"I am in heaven."
She closed her eyes—opening them almost immediately and passing one hand across his face as though afraid he might have vanished.
"You are there yet," she murmured with a faint smile.
"So are you," he whispered, laughing—"my little dream girl—my little brown-eyed, brown-haired, long-legged, swift-running, hard-hitting–"
"Oh, do you remember that dreadful blow I gave you when we were sparring in the library? Did it hurt you, my darling—I was sure it did, but you never would admit it. Tell me now," she coaxed, adorable in her penitence.
"Well—yes, it did." He laughed under his breath—"I don't mind telling you now that it fractured the bridge of my nose."
"What!"—in horror. "That perfectly delicious straight nose of yours!"
"Oh, I had it fixed," he said, laughing. "If you deal me no more vital blows than that I'll never mind–"
"I—deal you a—a blow, Duane! I!"
"For instance, by not marrying me right away–"
"Dear—I can't."
The smile had died out in her eyes and on her lips.
"You know I can't, don't you?" she said tenderly. "You know I've got to be fair to you." Her face grew graver. "Dear—when I stop and try to think—it dismays me to understand how much in love with you I am.... Because it is too soon.... It would be safer to wait before I start to love you—this way. There is a cowardly streak in me—a weak streak–"
"What blessed nonsense you do talk, don't you?"
"No, dear."
She moved slightly toward him, settling close, as though within the circle of his arms lay some occult protection.
For a while she lay very close to him, her pale face pressed against his shoulder, brown eyes remote. Neither spoke. After a long time she laid her hands on his arms, gently disengaging them, and, freeing herself, sprang to her feet. A new, lithe and lovely dignity seemed to possess her—an exquisite, graceful, indefinable something which lent a hint of splendour to her as she turned and looked down at him.
Then, mischievously tender, she stooped and touched her childish mouth to his—her cheek, her throat, her hair, her lids, her hands, in turn all brushed his lips with fragrance—the very ghost of contact, the exquisite mockery of caress.
"If you don't go at once," she murmured, "I'll never let you go at all. Wait—let me see if anybody is in the corridor–"
She opened the door and looked out.
"Not a soul," she whispered, "our reputations are still intact. Good-bye—I'll put on a fresh gown and meet you in ten minutes!… Where? Oh, anywhere—anywhere, Duane. The Lake. Oh, that is too far away! Wait here on the stairs for me—that isn't so far away—just sit on the stairs until I come. Do you promise? Truly? Oh, you angel boy!… Yes—but only one more, then—to be quite sure that you won't forget to wait on the stairs for me...."
CHAPTER VIII
AN AFTERGLOW
Deliciously weary, every fibre in her throbbing with physical fatigue, she had nevertheless found it impossible to sleep.
The vivid memory of Duane holding her in his arms, while she gave her heart to him with her lips, left her tremulous and confused by emotions of which she yet knew little.
Toward dawn a fever of unrest drove her from her hot, crushed pillows to the cool of the open casements. The morning was dark and very still; no breeze stirred; a few big, widely scattered stars watched her. For a long while she stood there trying to quiet the rapid pulse and fast breathing; and at length, with an excited little laugh, she sank down among the cushions on the window-seat and lay back very still, her head, with its glossy, disordered hair, cradled in her arms.
"Is this love?" she said to herself. "Is this what it is doing to me? Am I never again going to sleep?"
But she could not lie still; her restless hands began groping about in the darkness, and presently the fire from a cigarette glimmered red.
She remained quiet for a few moments, elbow among the pillows, cheek on hand, watching the misty spirals float through the open window. After a while she sat up nervously and tossed the cigarette from her. Like a falling star the spark whirled earthward in a wide curve, glowed for a few seconds on the lawn below, and slowly died out.
Then an inexplicable thing occurred. Unthinkingly she had turned over and extended her arm, searching in the darkness behind her. There came a tinkle, a vague violet perfume, and the starlight fell on her clustering hair and throat as she lifted and drained the brimming glass.
Suddenly she stood up; the frail, crystal glass fell from her fingers, splintering on the stone sill; and with a quick, frightened intake of breath, lips still wet and scented, and the fire of it already stealing through her veins, she awoke to stunned comprehension of what she had done.
For a moment only startled astonishment dominated her. That she could have done this thing so instinctively and without forethought or intent, seemed impossible. She bowed her head in her hands, striving desperately to recollect the circumstances; she sprang to her feet and paced the darkened room, trying to understand. A terrified and childish surprise possessed her, which changed slowly to anger and impatience as she began to realise the subtle treachery that habit had practised on her—so stealthy is habit, betraying the body unawares.
Overwhelmed with consternation, she seated herself to consider the circumstances; little flashes of alarm assisted her. Then a sort of delicate madness took possession of her, deafening her ears to the voice of fear. She refused to be afraid.
As she sat there, both hands unconsciously indenting her breast, the clamour and tumult of her senses drowned the voice within.
No, she would not be afraid!—though the burning perfume was mounting to her head with every breath and the glow grew steadily in her body, creeping from vein to vein. No, she would not be afraid. It could never happen again. She would be on her guard after this.... Besides, the forgetfulness had been so momentary, the imprudence so very slight … and it had helped her, too—it was already making her sleepy … and she had needed something to quiet her—needed sleep....
After a long while she turned languidly and picked up the little crystal flask from the dresser—an antique bit of glass which Rosalie had given her.
Dawn whitened the edges of the sky; the birds were becoming very noisy. She lifted the curiously cut relic; an imprisoned fluid glimmered with pale-violet light—some scented French distillation which Rosalie affected because nobody else had ever heard of it—an aromatic, fiery essence, faintly perfumed.
For a moment the girl gazed at it curiously. Then, on deliberate impulse, she filled another glass.
"One thing is certain," she said to herself; "if I am capable of controlling myself at all, I must begin now. If I should touch this it would be excess.... I would like to, but"—she flung the contents from the window—"I won't. And that is the way I am able to control myself."
She smiled, set the glass aside, and raised her eyes to the paling stars. When at last she stretched herself out on the bed, dawn was already lighting the room, but she fell asleep at once.
It was a flushed and rather heavy slumber, not perfectly natural; and when Kathleen entered at nine o'clock, followed by Geraldine's maid with the breakfast-tray, the girl still lay with face buried in her hair, breathing deeply and irregularly, her lashes wet with tears.
The maid retired; Kathleen bent low over the feverishly parted lips, kissed them, hesitated, drew back sharply, and cast a rapid glance around the room. Then she went over to the dressing-table and lifted Rosalie's antique flaçon; and set it back slowly, as the girl turned her face on the pillow and opened her eyes.
"Is that you, Kathleen?"
"Yes, dear."
For a few seconds she lay quite motionless, then, rising on one elbow, she passed the backs of her fingers across her lids, laughed sleepily, and straightened up, freeing her eyes from the confusion of her hair.
"I've had horrid dreams. I've been crying in my sleep. Come here," she said, stretching out her arms, and Kathleen went slowly.
The girl pulled her head down, linking both arms around her neck:
"You darling, can you ever guess what miracle happened to me yesterday?"
"No.... What?"
"I promised to marry Duane Mallett!"
There was no reply. The girl clung to her excitedly, burying her face against Kathleen's cheek, then released her with a laugh, and saw her face—saw the sorrowful amazement in it, the pain.
"Kathleen!" she exclaimed, startled, "what is the matter?"
Mrs. Severn dropped down on the bed's edge, her hands loosely clasped. Geraldine's brown eyes searched hers in hurt astonishment.
"Aren't you glad for me, Kathleen? What is it? Why do you—" And all at once she divined, and the hot colour stained her from brow to throat. Kathleen bent forward swiftly and caught her in her arms with a smothered cry; but the girl freed herself and leaned back, breathing fast.
"Duane knows about me," she said. "I told him."
"He knew before you told him, my darling."
Another wave of scarlet swept Geraldine's face.
"That is true.... He found out—last April.... But he and I are not afraid. I promised him—" And her voice failed as the memory of the night's indulgence flashed in her brain.
Kathleen began: "You promised me, too—" And her voice also failed.
There was a silence; the girl's eyes turned miserably toward the dressing-table, closed with a slow, inward breath which ended like a sob; and again she was in Kathleen's arms—struggled from them only to drop her head on Kathleen's knees and lie, tense face hidden, both hands clenched. The wave of grief and shame swept her and passed.
After a while she spoke in a hard little voice:
"It is foolish to say I cannot control myself.... I did not think what I was doing last night—that was all. Duane knows my danger—tendency, I mean. He isn't worried; he knows that I can take care of myself–"
"Don't marry him until you know you can."
"But I am perfectly certain of myself now!"
"Only prove it, darling. Be frank with me. Who in the world loves you as I do, Geraldine? Who desires happiness for you as I do? What have I in life besides you and Scott?… And lately, dearest—I must speak as I feel—something—some indefinable constraint seems to have grown between you and me—something—I don't exactly know what—that threatens our intimate understanding–"
"No, there is nothing!"
"Be honest with me, dear. What is it?"
The girl lay silent for a while, then:
"I don't know myself. I have been—worried. It may have been that."
"Worried about yourself, you poor lamb?"
"A little.... And a little about Duane."
"But, darling, if Duane loves you, that is all cleared up, isn't it?"
"Yes.... But for a long time he and Rosalie made me perfectly wretched.... I didn't know I was in love with him, either.... And I couldn't sleep very much, and I—I simply couldn't tell you how unhappy they were making me—and I—sometimes—now and then—in fact, very often, I—formed the custom of—doing what I ought not to have done—to steady my nerves—in fact, I simply let myself go—badly."
"Oh, my darling! My darling! Couldn't you have told me—let me sit with you, talk, read to you—love you to sleep? Why did you do this, Geraldine?"
"Nothing—very disgraceful—ever happened. It only helped me to sleep when I was excited and miserable.... I—I didn't care what I did—Duane and Rosalie made me so wretched. And there seemed no use in my trying to be different from others, and I thought I might as well be as rotten as everybody. But I tried and couldn't—I tried, for instance, to misbehave with Jack Dysart, but I couldn't—and I only hated myself and him and Rosalie and Duane!"
She sat up, flushed, dishevelled, lips quivering. "I want to confess! I've been horribly depraved for a week! I gambled with the Pink 'uns and swore as fashionably as I knew how! I scorched my tongue with cigarettes; I sat in Bunny Gray's room with the door bolted and let him teach me how to make silver fizzes and Chinese juleps out of Rose wine and saki! I let Jack Dysart retain my hand—and try to kiss me—several times–"
"Geraldine!"
"I did. I wanted to be horrid."
She sat there breathing fast, her big brown eyes looking defiantly at Kathleen, but the child's mouth quivered beyond control and the nervous hands tightened and relaxed.
"How bad have I been, Kathleen? It sounds pretty bad to tell it. But Muriel says 'damn!' and Rosalie says 'the devil!' and when anything goes wrong and I say, 'Oh, fluff!' I mean swearing, so I thought I'd do it.... And almost every woman I know smokes and has her favourite cocktail, and they all bet and play for stakes; and from what I hear talked about, nobody's conduct is modified because anybody happens to be married–"
The horror in Kathleen's blue eyes checked her; she hid her face in her hands for a moment, then flung out her arms and crushed Kathleen to her breast.
"I'm going to tell Duane how I've behaved. I couldn't rest until he knows the very worst … how fearfully common and bad a girl I can be. Darling, don't break down. I don't want to go any closer to the danger line than I've been. And, oh, I'm so ashamed, so humiliated—I—I wish I could go to Duane as—as clean and sweet and innocent as he would have me. For he is the dearest boy—and I love him so, Kathleen. I'm so silly about him.... I've got to tell him how I behaved, haven't I?"
"Are—are you going to?"
"Of course I am!" … She drew away and sat up very straight in bed, serious, sombre-eyed, hands clasped tightly about her knees.
"Do you know," she said, as though to herself, "it is curious that a trivial desire for anything like that"—pointing to Rosalie's gift—"should make me restless—annoy me, cause me discomfort. I can't understand why it should actually torment me. It really does, sometimes."
"That is the terrible part of it," faltered Kathleen. "For God's sake, keep clear of anything with even the faintest odour of alcohol about it.... Where did you find that cut-glass thing?"
"Rosalie gave it to me."
"What is in it?"
"I don't know—crême de something or other."
Kathleen took the girl's tightly clasped hands in hers:
"Geraldine, you've got to be square to Duane. You can't marry him until you cleanse yourself, until you scour yourself free of this terrible inclination for stimulants."
"H-how can I? I don't intend, ever again, to–"
"Prove it then. Let sufficient time elapse–"
"How long? A—year?"
"Dear, if you will show a clean record of self-control for a year I ask no more. It ought not to be difficult for you to dominate this silly weakness. Your will-power is scarcely tainted. What fills me with fear is this habit you have formed of caressing danger—this childish trifling with something which is still asleep in you—with all that is weak and ignoble. It is there—it is in all of us—in you, too. Don't rouse it; it is still asleep—merely a little restless in its slumber—but, oh, Geraldine! Geraldine!—if you ever awake it!—if you ever arouse it to its full, fierce consciousness–"
"I won't," said the girl hastily. "Oh, I won't, I won't, Kathleen, darling. I do know it's in me—I feel that if I ever let myself go I could be reckless and wicked. But truly, truly, I won't. I—darling, you mustn't cry—please, don't—because you are making me cry. I cried in my sleep, too.... I ought to be very happy—" She forced a laugh through the bright tears fringing her lashes, bent forward swiftly, kissed Kathleen, and sprang from the bed.
"I want my bath and breakfast!" she cried. "If I'm to be a Louis XVI doll this week, it's time my face was washed and my sawdust reinforced. Do fix my tray, dear, while I'm in the bath—and ring for my maid.... And when you go down you may tell Duane to wait for me on the stairs. It's good discipline; he'll find it stupid because I'll be a long time—but, oh, Kathleen, it is perfectly heavenly to bully him!"
Later she sent a note to him by her maid:
"To the Only Man in the World,
On the Stairs.
"Patient Sir: If you will go to the large beech-tree beyond Hurryon Gate and busy yourself by carving upon it certain initials intertwined within the circumscribed outlines of a symbol popularly supposed to represent a human heart, your industry will be presently and miraculously rewarded by the apparition of her who presumably occupies no inconsiderable place in your affections."
At the Hurryon Gate Duane found Rosalie trying to unlock it, a dainty, smiling Rosalie, fresh as a blossom, and absurdly like a schoolgirl with her low-cut collar, snowy neck, and the thick braid of hair. Under her arm she carried her bathing-dress.
"I'm going for a swim; I nearly perished with the heat last night.... Did you sleep well, Duane?"
"Rather well."
She hesitated, looked up: "Are you coming with me?"
"I have an appointment."
"Oh!… Are you going to let me go alone?"
He laughed: "I've no choice; I really have an appointment this morning."
She inspected him, drew a step nearer, laid both hands lightly on his shoulders.
"Duane, dear," she said, "are you really going to let me drift past you out to sea—after all?"
"What else can I do? Besides, you are not going to drift."
"Yes, I am. You were very nice to me yesterday."
"It was you who were very sweet to me.... But I told you how matters stand. You care for your husband."
"Yes, you did tell me. But it is not true. I thought about it all night long; I find that I do not care for him—as you told me I did."
He said, smiling: "Nor do you really care for me."
"I could care."
Her hands still lay lightly on his shoulders; he smilingly disengaged them, saluted the finger tips, and swung them free.
"No, you couldn't," he said—"nor could I."
She clasped her hands behind her, confronting him with that gaily audacious allure which he knew so well:
"Does a man really care whether or not he is in love with a woman before he makes love to her?"
"Do you want an honest answer?"
"Please."
"Well, then—if she is sufficiently attractive, a man doesn't usually care."
"Am I sufficiently attractive?"
"Yes."
"Then—why do you hesitate?… I know the rules of the game. When one wearies, the other must pretend to.... And then they make their adieux very amiably.... Isn't that a man's ideal of an affair with a pretty woman?"
He laughed: "I suppose so."
"So do I. You are no novice, are you—as I am?"
"Are you a novice, Rosalie?"
"Yes, I am. You probably don't believe it. It is absurd, isn't it, considering these lonely years—considering what he has done—that I haven't anything with which to reproach myself."
"It is very admirable," he said.
"Oh, yes, theoretically. I was too fastidious—perhaps a little bit too decent. It's curious how inculcated morals and early precepts make mountains out of what is really very simple travelling. If a woman ceases to love her husband, she is going to miss too much in life if she's afraid to love anybody else.... I suppose I have been afraid."
"It's rather a wholesome sort of fear," he said.
"Wholesome as breakfast-food. I hate it. Besides, the fear doesn't exist any more," shaking her head. "Like the pretty girls in a very popular and profoundly philosophical entertainment, I've simply got to love somebody"—she smiled at him—"and I'd prefer to fall honestly and disgracefully in love with you—if you'd give me the opportunity." There was a pause. "Otherwise," she concluded, "I shall content myself with doing a mischief to your sex where I can. I give you the choice, Duane—I give you the disposal of myself. Am I to love—you?—or be loved by God knows whom—and make him suffer for it"—she set her little even teeth—"and pay back to men what man has done to me?"
