“Honest, I do,” he hastened to add at sight of her shocked face.  “I don’t mean water an’ soap, but look there.”  His hand closed reverently but firmly on her arm.  “Soft, you’re all soft, all over.  Not like mine.  Here, feel this.”

He pressed the ends of her fingers into his hard arm-muscles until she winced from the hurt.

“Hard all over just like that,” he went on.  “Now that’s what I call clean.  Every bit of flesh an’ blood an’ muscle is clean right down to the bones—­and they’re clean, too.  No soap and water only on the skin, but clean all the way in.  I tell you it feels clean.  It knows it’s clean itself.  When I wake up in the morning an’ go to work, every drop of blood and bit of meat is shouting right out that it is clean.  Oh, I tell you—­”

He paused with swift awkwardness, again confounded by his unwonted flow of speech.  Never in his life had he been stirred to such utterance, and never in his life had there been cause to be so stirred.  For it was the Game that had been questioned, its verity and worth, the Game itself, the biggest thing in the world—­or what had been the biggest thing in the world until that chance afternoon and that chance purchase in Silverstein’s candy store, when Genevieve loomed suddenly colossal in his life, overshadowing all other things.  He was beginning to see, though vaguely, the sharp conflict between woman and career, between a man’s work in the world and woman’s need of the man.  But he was not capable of generalization.  He saw only the antagonism between the concrete, flesh-and-blood Genevieve and the great, abstract, living Game.  Each resented the other, each claimed him; he was torn with the strife, and yet drifted helpless on the currents of their contention.

His words had drawn Genevieve’s gaze to his face, and she had pleasured in the clear skin, the clear eyes, the cheek soft and smooth as a girl’s.  She saw the force of his argument and disliked it accordingly.  She revolted instinctively against this Game which drew him away from her, robbed her of part of him.  It was a rival she did not understand.  Nor could she understand its seductions.  Had it been a woman rival, another girl, knowledge and light and sight would have been hers.  As it was, she grappled in the dark with an intangible adversary about which she knew nothing.  What truth she felt in his speech made the Game but the more formidable.

A sudden conception of her weakness came to her.  She felt pity for herself, and sorrow.  She wanted him, all of him, her woman’s need would not be satisfied with less; and he eluded her, slipped away here and there from the embrace with which she tried to clasp him.  Tears swam into her eyes, and her lips trembled, turning defeat into victory, routing the all-potent Game with the strength of her weakness.

“Don’t, Genevieve, don’t,” the boy pleaded, all contrition, though he was confused and dazed.  To his masculine mind there was nothing relevant about her break-down; yet all else was forgotten at sight of her tears.