She paused and then, because her knees still felt weak and her head was swimming, she dropped wearily down and sat on the small bench at the side of the float.
Stuart's senses were keyed to concert pitch. Some tempting voice whispered to his inner realization that, should he pitch the battle on the plane of passion's attack, he could sweep her from her anchorage. To his mind she was more beautiful and desirable than Circe must have seemed to Ulysses, but like the great wanderer he battled against that voluptuous madness. If he lost it would be the defeat of a man, but if he won, by that appeal, only the victory of an animal. His voice remained almost judicially calm.
"But this changed attitude—this positive urbanity where there used to be utter intolerance—how do you account for that?"
She looked very straight into his eyes and spoke steadfastly.
"I can only account for it in one way—and it's a thing which doesn't make me feel very proud of myself, Stuart. I think that he, too, has been deluded by what you call my splendid semblance. I believe he trusts me utterly. He has seen us together and thinks I've stood the acid test—and I've got to do it."
"But why did he ask me here, if he thought there was danger?"
"Because he had the courage to trust his happiness under fire."
"That implies that until now—at least—he was in doubt."
"Grave doubt. I think he was almost ready to call it all a failure."