"There are few women who can be received so," returned Herman. "I suppose it requires both an especial temperament and especial experiences to render a woman capable of being a comrade to men."
The talk drifted away to general and indifferent subjects, broken here
and there by allusions and criticisms relating to the Flight of the
Months, and not infrequently dropping into brief silences. One of these
Herman broke by saying abruptly:
"You do not know how your song has haunted me all night. I have been saying over and over to myself
'I strew these opiate flowers
On thy restless pillow.'
And, indeed, I longed for some such soporific myself before morning. Your coffee or your song, or—yourself,"—he hesitated over the last word—kept me very effectually awake."
"It must have been the coffee; there was little potency in either of the other causes."
"There is much," he returned resolutely, advancing a step nearer. "Mrs. Greyson, I have not wasted the night. I have thought out a great many things; the first and chief being in regard to yourself."
His tone, the piercing glow of his eyes, warned Helen what was coming.
She thought of Ninitta, and retreated a step.
"It is true," the sculptor continued, as if answering the doubt implied by her movement, "that I—"
The door opened softly and Ninitta came in.