ackness of the bushes, his heart leaped. All
through the ages men have waited for women in gardens--"_She is coming,
my own, my sweet----_" and farther back, "_Make haste, my beloved_," and
in the beginning, as Mandy could have told, a serpent waited.

Dalton was not, of course, a serpent. He was merely a very selfish man,
who had always had what he wanted, and now he wanted Becky. He was
still, perhaps, playing the game, but he was playing it in dead earnest
with Randy as his opponent and Becky the prize.

She recognized a new note in his voice and was faintly disturbed by it.

"So you are not afraid?"

"No."

She sat down on the bench. Behind them was the pale statue of Diana, the
pool was at their feet with its little star.

"Why should I be afraid?" she asked.

"You are trying to shut me out of your heart, Becky--and you are afraid I
may try to--open the door."

"Silly," she said, clearly and lightly, but with a sense of panic. Oh,
why had she come? The darkness seemed to shut her in; his voice was
beating against her heart----

He was saying that he loved her, _loved her_. Did she understand? That
he had been _miserable_! His defense was masterly. He played on her
imagination delicately, as if she were a harp, and his fingers touched
the strings. He realized what a cad he must have seemed. But she was a
saint in a shrine--it will be seen that he did not hesitate to borrow
from Randy. She was a saint in a shrine, and well, he knelt at her
feet--a sinner. "You needn't think that I don't know what I have done,
Becky. I swept you along with me without a thought of anything serious
in it for either of us. It was just a game, sweetheart, and lots of
people play it, but it isn't a game now, it is the most serious thing in
life."

There is no eloquence so potent as that which is backed by genuine
passion. Becky coming down through the garden had been so sure of
herself. She had felt that pride would be the rock to which she would
anchor her resistance to his enchantments. Yet here in the garden----

"Oh, _please_," she said, and stood up.

He rose, too, and towered above her. "Becky," he said, hoarsely, "it's
the real thing--for me----"

His spell was upon her. She was held by it--drawn by it against her
will. Her cry was that of a frightened and fascinated bird.

He bent down. His face was a white circle in the dark, but she could see
the sparkle of his eyes. "Kiss me, Becky."

"