"You win!" His voice was very low, and jarred like a fine instrument that has been struck.
"Victory is to you! Tell me to go—or stay!"
The girl, glowing and swaying beside him, could not speak; but her hands made some little motion to him that he interpreted as he wished. He grasped them in his, which were broad and powerful, but had eyes in the fingers: hands with the gift of discovery by touch. In that moment his heart and his purpose changed. At the greatest of all games he was no novice; but he had always played honestly as far as in him lay. It was his principle not to gamble unless the chances were equal for both players. As if they ever can be between a man and a woman! But, strangely enough, all honest men honestly believe it possible. By the feel of those soft hands quivering and burning in his, he had reason to believe that he had made a mistake—with regard to his opponent, at least.
His head was far from clear that night in any case, and sitting there, with those hands in his, that fragrance ... those ensnaring plaits of hair ... was not conducive to coolness and sanity. It should be written down to him that he made an enormous effort to fight the sweet fumes that pressed upon him to cloud his brain and slacken his moral muscles.
"Tell me something about yourself, Carissima," he said softly. "Tell me that you are married, and that your husband is a brute!"
She drew her hands away swiftly. This was a jarring note that broke her dream at least. What could he mean? How strange he was! Was it possible that he was mad? Was it at the bidding of a madman that the little cold stone in her breast was turning into something living—something that felt like a sweet red rose bursting into blossom?
"Of course I am not married!" she said slowly and clearly. "I am only a girl of eighteen ... I do not understand why you say such things."
He made a sound which might have been a groan.
"My dear little girl, you must forgive me.... I believe I am ill to-night.... Of course you are only a girl ... a good girl!... gates and girls! ... gates!..." Suddenly he leaned closer to her and peered into her face, striving to distinguish the features he instinctively knew were lovely. "Who are you? What are you?" he strangely asked.
"I am a poppy ... a poppy growing in Africa," said she, smiling subtly to herself, but trembling—trembling.