they never set
sail. Tabs pondered the hidden profundity of her words. At last he
believed that through her he understood himself. It wasn't youth that he
or anybody coveted; it was the more supreme boon of not growing old. He
had just arrived at this new self-knowledge when she spoke.

"To be tempted means that one's wanted--wanted dreadfully, so that it
hurts. That's living--to be wanted. Not to be wanted is worse than
death. When you're dead, you're forgotten and you forget. To be
forgotten and to remember is the end of all things. Not to be wanted
when you're alive is to beat your flesh against the walls of a tomb.
Lord Taborley, I know what you came for." He had set down his cup. She
covered his bronzed hands with her own passionate white ones,
overwhelming him with a rush of words. "You came to accuse me, to bribe
me, to buy me. You didn't want to hear me; I was already condemned. Do
you think I don't know what's said about my marriages? I know too well.
But it isn't vanity that makes me want to be loved. It's so right to be
loved. It isn't wickedness. It's the terror of not being loved--the same
terror that makes you cling to Terry though she doesn't want you in
return---- We all want to believe that we're wanted. It's human. Without
that life's a blank. One can't face up---- And I----"

She tore her hands from him and buried her face, sobbing in the
cushions.

V

He had done it. By some unaccountable blunder he had made her cry. What
was it he had said? Only a minute ago she had been so radiant and
smiling. His first thought was of Porter; she must not know. This crying
must be stopped before she heard it. Any moment she might enter. Even
now she might be listening at the door, preparing to enter.

Another conjecture rushed into his mind--this sobbing might be part of a
prearranged plan. Tears are the jiu-jitsu of woman's art of
self-defense. To the world at large the man is always a villain who has
caused them. "But I didn't cause them," he protested to himself. And
then, "Dash it all! There's nothing gained by sitting here. I've got to
do something."

He roused himself and limped round the table to the end of the couch
against which her face was hidden. He could see nothing but the pale
gold of her hair, the ivory whiteness of her neck and the pitiful
heaving of her fascinating shoulders. She looked extraordinarily like a
doll--a broken doll which had been allowed to fall through some one's
carelessn