"Why? Because he cannot marry her?"

"Yes."

"If you ever fell in love with me--would you wish to marry me?"

"If I ever did," he said, "I'd go through h.e.l.l to marry you."

She considered him, curiously, as though trying to realise something inconceivable.

"I do not think of you that way," she said. "I do not think of you sentimentally at all.... Only that I care for you--deeply. I don't believe it's in me to love. I mean--as the world defines love.... So don't fall in love with me, Clive.... But, if you ever do, tell me."

"Why?" he asked unsteadily.

"Because you ought to tell me. I should not wish to die and never know it."

"Would you care?"

"Care? Do you ask a girl whether she could remain unmoved, uninterested, indifferent, if the man she cares for most falls in love with her?"

"Could you--respond?"

"Respond? With love? I don't know. How can I tell? I believe that I have never been in love in all my life. I don't know what it feels like. You might as well ask somebody born blind to read an ordinary book.... But one thing is certain: if that ever happens to you, you ought to tell me. Will you?"

"What good would it do?"

"What harm would it do?" she asked frankly.

"Suppose, knowing we could not marry, I made love to you, Athalie?"

Suddenly the smile flashed in her eyes: "Do you think I'm a baby, Clive? Suppose, knowing what we know, you did make love to me? Is that very dreadful?"

"My responsibility would be."

"The responsibility is mine. I'm my own mistress. If I chose to be yours the responsibility is mine--"

"Don't say such things, Athalie!"

"Why not? Such things happen--or they don't happen. I have no idea they're likely to happen to us.... I'm not a bit alarmed, Clive....

Perhaps it's the courage of ignorance--" She glanced at him again with the same curious, questioning look in her eyes,--"Perhaps because I cannot comprehend any such temptation.... And never could....

Nevertheless if you fall in love with me, tell me. I would not wish you to remain dumb. You have a right to speak. Love isn't a question of conditions or of convenience. You ought to have your chance."

"Chance!"

"Certainly."

"What chance?"

"To win me."

"Win you!--when I can't marry you--"

"I didn't say marry; I said, win.... If you ever fell in love with me you would wish to win my love, wouldn't you? And if you did, and I gave it to you, you would have won me for yourself, wouldn't you? Then why should you worry concerning _how_ I might love you? That would be my affair, my personal responsibility. And I admit to you that I know no more than a kitten what I might do about it."

She looked at him a moment, her hands still resting on his shoulders, and suddenly threw back her head, laughing deliciously: "Did you ever before take part in such a ridiculous conversation?" she demanded.

"Oh, but I have always adored theoretical conversations. Only give me an interesting subject and take one end of it and I'll gratefully grasp the other, Clive. What an odd man you are; and I suppose I'm odd, too. And we may yet live to inhabit an odd little house together.... Wouldn't the world tear me to tatters!... I wonder if I'd dare--even knowing I was all right!"... The laughter died in her eyes; a swift tenderness melted them: "I do care for you so truly, Clive! I can't bear to think of ever again living without you.... You know it isn't silliness or love or anything except what I've always felt for you--loyalty and devotion, endless, eternal. And that is all there is or ever will be in my heart and mind."

So clear and sweet and confident in his understanding were her eyes that the quick emotion that leaped responsive left only a ruddy trace on his face and a slight quiver on his lips.

He said: "Nothing shall ever threaten your trust in me. No man can ask for more than you give, Athalie."

"I give you all I am. What more is there?"

"I ask no more."

"Is there more to wish for? Are you really satisfied, Clive?"

"Perfectly;"--but he looked away from her.

"And you don't imagine that you love me, do you?"

"No,"--still looking away from her.

"Meet my eyes, and say it."

"I--"

"Clive!"

"There is no--"

"Clive, obey me!"

So he turned and looked her in the eyes. And after a moment's silence she laughed, uncertainly, almost nervously.

"You--you _do_ imagine it!" she said. "Don't you?"

He made no reply.

Presently she began to laugh again, a gay, tormenting, excited little laugh. Something in his face seemed to exhilarate her, sending the blood like wine to her cheeks.

"You _do_ imagine it! Oh, Clive! _You!_ You think yourself in love with your old comrade!... I _knew_ it! There was something about you--I can't explain exactly what--but there was _something_ that told me."

She was laughing, now, almost wickedly and with all the nave and innocently malicious delight of a child delighting in its fellow's torment.

"Oh, Clive!" she said, "what are you going to do about it? And why do you gaze at me so oddly?--as though I were angry or disconcerted. I'm not. I'm happy. I'm crazy about this new relation of ours. It makes you more interesting than I ever dreamed even you could be--"

"You know," he said almost grimly, "if you are going to take it like this--"

"Take what?"