"Yes."
"Never to tell you again that I love you?"
"No, never again."
"Very well, we are to be comrades, then?"
She gave him her hand. "Yes, working as best we may, each with the understanding and approval of the other; comrades in Bohemia."
Some trick of her voice, some movement of her hand—those trifles so potent with a man in love—beat down his contending reason. With a catch in his breath, he crushed her roughly to him, kissed her passionately on the mouth, then suddenly released her.
"Women like you don't know what you do," he said harshly. "You hold a man captive with your charm, become so vitally necessary to him that you are nothing less than life, enmesh, ensnare him at every opportunity, then offer him the cold comfort of your friendship!"
He was silent for a breathless instant; then in some measure, his self-control came back. "Pardon me," he said gently, bending over her hand. "I have startled you. It shall not occur again. Good night and good luck—my comrade in Bohemia!"
Helen stood where he had left her until the street door closed and the echo of his footsteps died away. The fire was a smouldering heap of ashes, and the room seemed deathly still. Her cheeks were hot as with a fever, and she trembled like one afraid. It was the first time he had crossed the conventional boundary, and he had said it would be the last, but Love's steel had struck flame from the flint of her maiden soul.
"I wish," she said to herself as she put the room in order, "that I lived on some planet where life wasn't quite so serious."