The relations of the sexes are for the most part governed by traditions of sex allurements and sex tricks so ancient that they have ceased to be conscious and have become instinctive.  One of these venerable first principles is that mystery is the arch provoker.  Norman, an old and expert student of the great game—­the only game for which the staidest and most serious will abandon all else to follow its merry call—­Norman knew this trick of mystery.  The woman veils herself and makes believe to fly—­an excellent trick, as good to-day as ever after five thousand years of service.  And he knew that in it lay the explanation for the sudden and high upflaming of his interest in this girl.  “What an ass I’m making of myself!” reflected he.  “When I care nothing about the girl, why should I care about the mystery of her?  Of course, it’s some poor little affair, a puzzle not worth puzzling out.”

All true and clear enough.  Yet seeing it did not abate his interest a particle.  She had veiled herself; she was pretending—­perhaps honestly—­to fly.  He rose and went to the window, stood with his back to her, resumed dictating.  But the sentences would not come.  He whirled abruptly.  “I’m not ready to do the thing yet,” he said.  “I’ll send for you later.”

Without a word or a glance she stood, took her book and went toward the door.  He gazed after her.  He could not refrain from speaking again.  “I’m afraid you misunderstood my offer a while ago,” said he, neither curt nor friendly.  “I forgot how such things from a man to a young woman might be misinterpreted.”

“I never thought of that,” replied she unembarrassed.  “It was simply that I can’t put myself under obligation to anyone.”

As she stood there, her full beauty flashed upon him—­the exquisite form, the subtly graceful poise of her body, of her head—­the loveliness of that golden-hued white skin—­the charm of her small rosy mouth—­the delicate, sensitive, slightly tilted nose—­and her eyes—­above all, her eyes!—­so clear, so sweet.  Her voice had seemed thin and faint to him; its fineness now seemed the rarest delicacy—­the exactly fitting kind for so evasive and delicate a beauty as hers.  He made a slight bow of dismissal, turned abruptly away.  Never in all his life, strewn with gallant experiences—­never had a woman thus treated him, and never had a woman thus affected him.  “I am mad—­stark mad!” he muttered.  “A ten-dollar-a-week typewriter, whom nobody on earth but myself would look at a second time!” But something within him hurled back this scornful fling.  Though no one else on earth saw or appreciated—­what of it?  She affected him thus—­and that was enough. “I want her! . . .  I want her!  I have never wanted a woman before.”