She rose, the beautiful dazed eyes meeting his, both hands clasping the ninth volume of Lamour’s great monograph to her breast as though to protect it from him—­from him who was threatening her, enthralling her, thrilling her with his magic voice, his enchanted youth, the masterful mystery of his eyes.  What was he saying to her?  What was this mounting intoxication sweeping her senses—­this delicious menace threatening her very will?  What did he want with her?  What was he asking?  What was he doing now—­with both her hands in his, and her gaze deeply lost in his—­and the ninth volume of Lamour on the floor between them, sprawling there, abandoned, waving its helpless, discredited leaves in air—­discredited, abandoned, obsolete as her own specialty—­her life’s work!  He had taken that, too—­taken her life’s work from her.  And in return she was holding nothing!—­nothing except a young man’s hands—­strong, muscular hands which, after all, were holding her own imprisoned.  So she had nothing in exchange for the ninth volume of Lamour; and her life’s work had been annihilated by a smile; and she was very much alone in the world—­very isolated and very youthful.

After a while she emerged from the chaos of attempted reflection and listened to what he was saying.  He spoke very quietly, very distinctly, not sparing himself, laying bare every deception without involving anybody except himself.

He told her the entire history of his case, excluding Mr. Keen in person; he told her about his aunt, about his birthday, about his determination to let the legacy go.  Then in a very manly way he told her that he had never before loved a woman; and fell silent, her hands a dead weight in his.

She was surprised that she could experience no resentment.  A curious inertia crept over her.  She was tired of expectancy, tired of effort, weary of the burden of decision.  Life and its problems overweighted her.  Her eyes wandered to his broad young shoulders, then were raised to his face.

“What shall we do?” she asked innocently.

Unresisting, she suffered him to explain.  His explanation was not elaborate; he only touched his lips to her hands and straightened up, a trifle pale.

After a moment they walked together to the door and he took his hat and gloves from the rack.

“Will you come to-morrow morning?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Come early.  I am quite certain of how matters are with me.  Everything has gone out of my life—­everything I once cared for—­all the familiar things.  So come early, for I am quite alone without you.”

“And I without you, Rosalind.”

“That is only right,” she said simply.  “I shall cast no more shadows for you. . . .  Are you going? . . .  Oh, I know it is best that you should go, but—­”

He halted.  She laid both hands in his.

“We both have it,” she faltered—­“every symptom.  And—­you will come early, won’t you?”