The intentions of men are seldom more serious than they have to be. But they all were helplessly, hopelessly caught in the magic, gossamer web of Athalie's beauty and personal charm; and some merely kicked and buzzed and some tried to rend the frail rainbow fabric, and some struggled silently against they knew not what—themselves probably. And some, like Dane, hung motionless, enmeshed, knowing that to struggle was futile. And some, like Clive, were still lying under her jewelled feet in the very centre of the sorcery, so far silent and unstirring, awaiting to see whether the grace of God would fall upon them or the coup-de-grâce that ended all. Eventually, however, like all other men, Clive gave signs of life and impatience.
"Can't you love me, Athalie?" he said abruptly one night, when they had returned from the theatre and he had already taken his leave—and had come back from the door to take it again more tenderly. The girl let him kiss her.
She, in her clinging, sparkling evening gown was standing by her crystal, the fingers of one hand lightly poised upon it, looking down at it.
"Love you, Clive," she repeated in smiling surprise. "Why, I do, you dear, foolish boy. I've admitted it to you. Also haven't you just kissed me?"
"I know.... But I mean—couldn't you love me above all other men—above everything in this world—"
"But I do! Were you annoyed because I was silly with Cecil to-night?"
"No.... I understand. You simply can't help turning everybody's head. It's in you,—it's part of you—"
"I'm merely having a good time," she protested. "It means no more than you see, when I flirt with other men.... It never goes any farther—except—once or twice I have let men kiss me.... Only two or three.... Before you came back, of course—"
"I didn't know that," he said sullenly.