“My dear,” she said, with a mother’s voice.
He broke away from her and started to pace the room feverishly.
“Come back,” she pleaded. “I am so proud of that belief.”
He threw up his head.
“I was honest enough to offer all I possessed,” he cried. “A man would have taken you in his arms. God! I’m only half a man—a starveling—! You are beautiful—beautiful to me—beautiful—subtle—desirable—but I haven’t a shred of passion in my half-starved body.”
“Yours is the better half, dear. The spirit counts, and the greatest possession a woman can have is all that her man can give. Let us keep our spirits bright together.” She rose, and he came toward her, and suddenly his face lost its tragic look, and the lines at the corners of his mouth pulled down in a whimsical smile.
“What a triumph for Plato!” he said. “When shall it be?”
She smiled back at him. “Whenever you wish.”
Very delicious she looked in the dancing fairy light. A strangely new and elemental impulse seized him, and he gripped her shoulders fiercely.
“You are wonderful,” he said. “We’ll work together for the Day. The Day shall be our real wedding; till then—partners.”