“I think you cannot fairly complain of life, Liane.  What have you asked of it that you have failed to get?  Success, money, power, adulation——­”

“Never love.”

“The world would find it difficult to believe that.”

“Ah, love of a sort, yes:  the love that is the desire to possess and that possession satisfies.”

“Have you asked for any other sort?”

“I ask it now.  I know what the love is that longs to give, to give and give again, asking no return but kindness, understanding, even toleration merely.  It is such love as this I bear you, Michael.  But you do not believe....”

Divided between annoyance and distaste, he was silent.  And all at once she threw herself half across the joined arms of their chairs, catching his shoulders with her hands, so that her half-clothed body rested on his bosom, and its scented warmth assailed his senses with the seduction whose power she knew so well.

“Ah, Michael, my Michael!” she cried—­“if you but knew, if only you could believe!  It is so real to me, so true, so overwhelming, the greatest thing of all!  How can it be otherwise to you?...  No:  do not think I complain, do not think I blame you or have room in my heart for any resentment.  But, oh my dear! were I only able to make you understand, think what life could be to us, to you and me.  What could it withhold that we desired?  You with your wit, your strength, your skill, your poise—­I with my great love to inspire and sustain you—­what a pair we should make! what happiness would be ours!  Think, Michael—­think!”

“I have thought, Liane,” he returned in accents as kind as the hands that held her.  “I have thought well...”

“Yes?” She lifted her face so near that their breaths mingled, and he was conscious of the allure of tremulous and parted lips.  “You have thought and....  Tell me your thought, my Michael.”

“Why, I think two things,” said Lanyard:  “First, that you deserve to be soundly kissed.”  He kissed her, but with discretion, and firmly put her from him.  “Then”—­his tone took on a note of earnestness—­“that if what you have said is true, it is a pity, and I am sorry, Liane, very sorry.  And, if it is not true, that the comedy was well played.  Shall we let it rest at that, my dear?”

Half lifting her, he helped her back into her chair, and as she turned her face away, struggling for mastery of her emotion, true or feigned, he sat back, found his cigarette case, and clipping a cigarette between his lips, cast about for a match.

He had none in his pockets, but knew that there was a stand on one of the wicker tables nearby.  Rising, he found it, and as he struck the light heard a sudden, soft swish of draperies as the woman rose.

Moving toward the saloon companionway, she passed him swiftly, without a word, her head bended, a hand pressing a handkerchief to her lips.  Forgetful, he followed her swaying figure with puzzled gaze till admonished by the flame that crept toward his fingertips.  Then dropping the match he struck another and put it to his cigarette.  At the second puff he heard a choking gasp, and looked up again.