yet, Florence, and I am not going to begin now.  I will not even analyze the feeling I have for you, or call it by name.  I know this is an unheard-of-way to talk to a girl, especially one so impressionable as you; but I cannot help it.  There is something about you, Florence, that keeps me from untruth, when probably under the same circumstances I would lie to any other woman in the world.  I simply know that you impersonate a desire of my nature ungratified; that without you I have no wish to live.”

Strange and cold-blooded as this proposal would have seemed to a listener, Florence heard it without a sign.  It did not even affect her with the shock of the unexpected.  It was merely a part of that inevitable something she had anticipated, and had for months watched slowly taking form.

“I suppose it seems unaccountable to you,” the voice went on, “that I should have been attracted to you in the first place.  It has often been so to me, and I’ve tried to explain it.  Beautiful, you undeniably are, Florence; but I do not believe it was that.  It was, I think, because, despite your ideals of something which—­pardon me—­doesn’t exist, you were absolutely natural; and the women I’d met before were the reverse of that.  Like myself, they had tasted of life and found it flat.  I danced with them, drank with them, went the round of so-called gayety with them; but they repelled me.  But you, Florence, are very different.  You make me think of a prairie anemone with the dew on its petals.  I haven’t much to offer you save money, which you already have in plenty, and an empty fame; but I’ll play the game fair.  I’ll take you anywhere in the world, do anything you wish.”  Out of the shadow an arm crept around the girl’s waist, closed there, and she did not stir.  “I am writing an English story now, and the principal character, a soldier, has been ordered to India.  To catch the atmosphere, I’ve got to be on the spot.  The boat I wish to take will leave in ten days.  Will you go with me as my wife?”

The voice paused, and the face so near her own remained motionless, waiting.  Into the pause crept the music of the orchestra—­beat, beat, beat, like the throbbing of a mighty heart.  Above it, distinct for an instant, sounded the tinkle of a woman’s laugh; then again silence.  It was now the girl’s turn to speak, to answer; but not a sound left her lips.  She had an odd feeling that she was playing a game of checkers, and that it was her turn to play.  “Move!” said an inward monitor.  “Move! move!” But she knew not where or how.

The man’s arm tightened around her; his lips touched hers again and again; and although she was conscious of the fact, it carried no particular significance.  It all seemed a part of the scene that was going on in which she was a silent actor—­of the game in which she was a player.

“Florence,” said an insistent voice, “Florence, Florence Baker!  Don’t sit like that!  For God’s sake, speak to me, answer me!”