The sound of them took the manhood out of me—­you’d have been the same, sir.  I knelt down beside her on the floor and covered my face.

“Please!” I moaned.  “Please!  Please!” That’s all I could say.  I wanted her to forgive me.  I reached out a hand, blind, for forgiveness, and I couldn’t find her anywhere.  I had hurt her so, and she was afraid of me, of me, sir, who loved her so deep it drove me crazy.

I could see her down the stair, though it was dim and my eyes were filled with tears.  I stumbled after her, crying, “Please!  Please!” The little wicks I’d lit were blowing in the wind from the door and smoking the glass beside them black.  One went out.  I pleaded with them, the same as I would plead with a human being.  I said I’d be back in a second.  I promised.  And I went on down the stair, crying like a baby because I’d hurt her, and she was afraid of me—­of me, sir.

She had gone into her room.  The door was closed against me and I could hear her sobbing beyond it, broken-hearted.  My heart was broken too.  I beat on the door with my palms.  I begged her to forgive me.  I told her I loved her.  And all the answer was that sobbing in the dark.

And then I lifted the latch and went in, groping, pleading.  “Dearest—­please!  Because I love you!”

I heard her speak down near the floor.  There wasn’t any anger in her voice; nothing but sadness and despair.

“No,” said she.  “You don’t love me, Ray.  You never have.”

“I do!  I have!”

“No, no,” said she, as if she was tired out.

“Where are you?” I was groping for her.  I thought, and lit a match.  She had got to the door and was standing there as if ready to fly.  I went toward her, and she made me stop.  She took my breath away.  “I hurt your arms,” said I, in a dream.

“No,” said she, hardly moving her lips.  She held them out to the match’s light for me to look and there was never a scar on them—­not even that soft, golden down was singed, sir.  “You can’t hurt my body,” said she, sad as anything.  “Only my heart, Ray; my poor heart.”

I tell you again, she took my breath away.  I lit another match.  “How can you be so beautiful?” I wondered.

She answered in riddles—­but oh, the sadness of her, sir.

“Because,” said she, “I’ve always so wanted to be.”

“How come your eyes so heavy?” said I.

“Because I’ve seen so many things I never dreamed of,” said she.

“How come your hair so thick?”

“It’s the seaweed makes it thick,” said she smiling queer, queer.

“How come seaweed there?”

“Out of the bottom of the sea.”

She talked in riddles, but it was like poetry to hear her, or a song.

“How come your lips so red?” said I.

“Because they’ve wanted so long to be kissed.”

Fire was on me, sir.  I reached out to catch her, but she was gone, out of the door and down the stair.  I followed, stumbling.  I must have tripped on the turn, for I remember going through the air and fetching up with a crash, and I didn’t know anything for a spell—­how long I can’t say.  When I came to, she was there, somewhere, bending over me, crooning, “My love—­my love—­” under her breath like, a song.