“Kiss me,” he said.

She kissed him—­without hesitation and without warmth.

“Why do you look at me so?” he demanded.

“I can’t understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you should wish to kiss me when you love another woman.  What would she say if she knew?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.  And I rather think I don’t care.  You are the only person on earth that interests me.”

“Then why are you marrying?”

“Let’s not talk about that.  Let’s talk about ourselves.”  He clasped her passionately, kissed her at first with self-restraint, then in a kind of frenzy.  “How can you be so cruel!” he cried.  “Are you utterly cold?”

“I do not love you,” she said.

“Why not?”

“There’s no reason.  I—­just don’t.  I’ve sometimes thought perhaps it was because you don’t love me.”

“Good God, Dorothy!  What do you want me to say or do?”

“Nothing,” replied she calmly.  “You asked me why I didn’t love you, and I was trying to explain.  I don’t want anything more than I’m getting.  I am content—­aren’t you?”

“Content!” He laughed sardonically.  “As well ask Tantalus if he is content, with the water always before his eyes and always out of reach.  I want you—­all you have to give.  I couldn’t be content with less.”

“You ought not to talk to me this way,” she reproved gently, “when you are engaged.”

He flung her hand into her lap.  “You are making a fool of me.  And I don’t wonder.  I’ve invited it.  Surely, never since man was created has there been such another ass as I.”  He drew her to her feet, seized her roughly by the shoulders.  “When are you coming to your senses?” he demanded.

“What do you mean?” she inquired, in her childlike puzzled way.

He shook her, kissed her violently, held her at arm’s length.  “Do you think it wise to trifle with me?” he asked.  “Don’t your good sense tell you there’s a limit even to such folly as mine?”

“What is the matter?” she asked pathetically.  “What do you want?  I can’t give you what I haven’t got to give.”

“No,” he cried.  “But I want what you have got to give.”

She shook her head slowly.  “Really, I haven’t, Mr. Norman.”

He eyed her with cynical amused suspicion.  “Why did you call me Mr. Norman just then?  Usually you don’t call me at all.  It’s been weeks since you have called me Mister.  Was your doing it just then one of those subtle, adroit, timely tricks of yours?”

She was the picture of puzzled innocence.  “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Well—­perhaps you don’t,” said he doubtfully.  “At any rate, don’t call me Mr. Norman.  Call me Fred.”

“I can’t.  It isn’t natural.  You seem Mister to me.  I always think of you as Mr. Norman.”

“That’s it.  And it must stop!”