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 G.o.d would fall upon them or the _coup-de-grace_ 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.

"Didn't you? Then the men were more decent than I supposed.... Yes, I let John Lyndhurst kiss me once. And Francis Hargrave did it.... And Jim Allys tried to, against my wishes--but he never attempted it after that."

She had been looking down again at the crystal while speaking; her att.i.tude was penitential, but the faint smile on her lips adorably mischievous. Presently she glanced up at him to see how he was taking it. He must have been taking it very badly, for:

"Clive!" she said, startled; "are you really annoyed with me?"

The gathering scowl faded and he forced a smile. Then the frown returned; he flung one arm around her supple waist and gathered both her hands into his, holding them closely imprisoned.

"You _must_ love!" he said almost roughly.

"My dear! I've told you that I do love you."

"And I tell you you don't! Your calm and cheerful friendship for me isn't love!"

"Oh. What else is it, please?"

He kissed her on the mouth. She suffered his lips again without flinching, then drew back laughingly to avoid him.

"Why are you becoming so very demonstrative?" she asked. "If you are not careful it will become a horrid habit with you."

"Does it mean nothing more than a habit to you?" he asked, unsmilingly.

"It means that I care enough for you to let you do it more than once, doesn't it?"

He shrugged and turned his face toward the window:

"And you believe that you love me," he said, sullenly and partly to himself.

"You amazingly sulky man, _what_ are you muttering to yourself?" she demanded, bending forward and across his shoulder to see his face which was still turned from her. He swung about and caught her fiercely in his arms; and the embrace left her breathless and flushed.

"Clive--please--"

"_Can't_ you care for me! For G.o.d's sake show it if you can!"

"Please, dear--I--"

"_Can't_ you!" he repeated unsteadily, drawing her closer. "You know what I am asking. Answer me!"

She bent her head and rested it against his shoulder a moment, considering; she then looked away from him, troubled:

"I don't want to be your--mistress," she said. Truth disconcerts the vast majority. It disconcerted him--after a ringing silence through which the beating of rain on the window came to him like the steady tattoo of his own heart.

"I did not ask that," he said, very red.

"You meant that.... Because I've been everything to you except that."

"I want you for my wife," he interrupted sharply.

"But you are married, Clive. So what more can I be to you, unless I become--what I don't want to become--"

"I merely want you to love me--until I can find some way out of this h.e.l.l on earth I'm living in!"

"Dear, I'm sorry! I'm sorry you are so unhappy. But you can't get free,--can you? She won't let you, will she?"

"I've got to have my freedom! I can't stand this. Good G.o.d! Must a man do life for being a fool once? Isn't there any allowance to be made for a first offence? I've always wanted to marry you. I was a miserable, crazy coward to do what I did! Haven't I paid for it? Do you know what I've been through?"

She said very sweetly and pitifully: "Dear, I know what people suffer--what lonely hearts endure. I think I understand what you have been through."

"I know you understand! Fool that I am who enlightened you. But yours was the injury of bruised faith--the suffering caused by outrage. No h.e.l.l of self-contempt set _you_ crawling about the world in agony; no despicable self-knowledge drove _you_ out into the waste places. Yours was the sorrow of a self-respecting victim; mine the grief of the d.a.m.ned fool who has done to death all that he ever loved for the love of expediency and of self!"

"Clive!--"

"That's what I am!" he interrupted fiercely, "a d.a.m.ned fool! I don't know what else I am, but I can't live without you, and I won't!"

She said: "You told me that being in love with me would not make you unhappy. So I told you to love me. I was wrong to let you do it."

"You darling! I am more than happy!"

"It was a dreadful mistake, Clive! I shouldn't have let you."

"Do you think you could have stopped me?"

"I don't know. Couldn't I? I've stopped other men.... I shouldn't have let you. But it was so delightful--to be really loved by _you_! All my pride responded. It seemed to dignify everything; it seemed to make me really a woman, with a place among other women--to be loved by such a man as you ... and I was _not_ selfish about it; I did ask you whether it would make you unhappy to be in love with me. Oh, I see now that I was very wrong, Clive--very foolish, very wrong! Because it _is_ making you restless and unhappy--"

"If you could only love me a little in return!"

"I don't know how to love you except the way I am doing--"

"There is a more vital emotion--"