“He is a gentleman—­and a genius——­”

His face darkened.  “I’ll pass over the first part of that until later.  But why call him a ’genius’?”

“He has written a story,” breathlessly, “oh, all the world will know it soon.  The people who have read it, in New York, are crazy about it——­”

“Is that all?  A story?  So many people write nowadays.”

“Well,” she asked quietly, “what more have you to offer?”

“Love, Becky.  You intimated a moment ago that I was not—­a gentleman—­because I failed—­once.  Is that fair?  How do you know that Paine has not failed—­how do you know——?  And love hasn’t anything to do with genius, Becky, it has to do with that night in the music-room, when you sang and when I—­kissed you.  It has to do with nights like those in the old garden, with the new moon and the stars, and the old goddesses.”

“And with words which meant—­nothing——­”

“Becky,” he protested.

“Yes,” she said, “you know it is true—­they meant nothing.  Perhaps you have changed since then.  I don’t know.  But I know this, that I have changed.”

He felt back of her words the force which had always baffled him.

“You mean that you don’t love me?”

“Yes.”

“I—­I don’t believe it——­”

“You must——­”

“But——­” he rose and went towards her.

“Please—­we won’t argue it.  And—­Jane is going to give us some tea.” 
She left him for a moment and came back to sit behind the little table. 
Jane brought tea and fresh little cakes.

“For Heaven’s sake, Becky,” George complained, when the old woman had returned to her kitchen, “can you eat at a moment like this?”

“Yes,” she said, “I can eat and the cakes are very nice.”

She did not let him see that her hand trembled as she poured the tea.

George had had five days in the company of the dancer in yellow.  He had found her amusing.  She played the game at which he had proved himself so expert rather better than the average woman.  She served for the moment, but no sane man would ever think of spending his life with her.  But here was the real thing—­this slip of a child in a blue velvet smock, with bows on her slippers, and a wave of bronze hair across her forehead.  He felt that Becky’s charms would last for a lifetime.  When she was old, and sat like that on the other side of the hearth, with silver hair and bent figure, she would still retain her loveliness of spirit, the steadfast gaze, the vivid warmth of word and gesture.

For the first time in his life George knew the kind of love that projects itself forward into the future, that sees a woman as friend and as companion.  And this woman whom he loved had just said that she did not love him.

“I won’t give you up,” he said doggedly.

“How can you keep me?” she asked quietly, and suddenly the structure of hope which he had built for himself tumbled.