George had had five days in the company of the dancer in yellow. He had found her amusing. She played the game at which he had proved himself so expert rather better than the average woman. She served for the moment, but no sane man would ever think of spending his life with her. But here was the real thing—this slip of a child in a blue velvet smock, with bows on her slippers, and a wave of bronze hair across her forehead. He felt that Becky's charms would last for a lifetime. When she was old, and sat like that on the other side of the hearth, with silver hair and bent figure, she would still retain her loveliness of spirit, the steadfast gaze, the vivid warmth of word and gesture.
For the first time in his life George knew the kind of love that projects itself forward into the future, that sees a woman as friend and as companion. And this woman whom he loved had just said that she did not love him.
"I won't give you up," he said doggedly.
"How can you keep me?" she asked quietly, and
suddenly the structure of hope which he had built for himself tumbled.
"Then this is the—end?"
"I am afraid it is," and she offered him a cup.
His face grew suddenly gray. "I don't want any tea. I want you," his hands went over his face. "I want you, Becky."
"Don't," she said, shakily, "I am sorry."
She was sorry to see him no longer shining, no longer splendid, but she was glad that the spell was broken—the charm of sparkling eyes and quick voice gone—forever.