peal. "Tell me that you don't mean it, that you're
merely acting, that, that--" As suddenly she halted. Her face hidden in
her hands, she dropped back into the seat. "Forget, please," she halted,
"that I did that. I didn't mean to. I--I--forget it."

"Elice--dear!" Aroused beyond his purpose, his determination, the man
sprang from his seat, his eyes ablaze, glorious. "Elice--"

"No, not pity! Never, a thousand times no! Leave me alone a minute. I
release you, yes, yes; but don't come near me now. I'm hysterical and
irresponsible. Don't, please!"

Precisely where he stood Armstrong paused, looking down. After that first
involuntary sound he had not spoken or come closer. He merely remained
there, waiting, looking; and as he did so, though the room was far from
close, drops of sweat gathered on his forehead and beneath his eyes. With
a restless hand he brushed them away and sat down. Another minute passed,
two perhaps; then suddenly, interrupting, incongruous, there sounded the
strained rasp of his laugh.

"Elice," followed a voice, "aren't you through--nearly?" Again the laugh;
grating, unmirthful. "I've done this sort of thing identically in novels
several times, done it realistically, I thought; but it never took this
long by minutes. Aren't you almost through?"

Surprised out of herself the girl looked up, incredulous.

"Something must be wrong, art or reality, one or the other. I--I
wonder--which was wrong, Elice?"

As suddenly as the mood of abandon had come it passed; incredulity, its
successor, as well. In the space of seconds the miracle was wrought, and
another woman absolutely sat there looking forth from the brown eyes of
Elice Gleason.

"Steve! I thought I was ready for anything after what you just told me,
what you just asked. But this deliberate--insult.... Did you mean it,
Steve, really; or are you merely acting?... Don't look away; this means
the world to you and me, and I want to be sure, now.... Did you mean it,
Steve, the way you did it, deliberately? Tell me."

"Mean it? Certainly. It's important, what I asked, from an artist's point
of view. Either I was wrong or else reality is--overdone.... Repression's
the word, all critics agree, repression invariably."

"Steve Armstrong! Stop! I won't stand it. Listen. It's unbelievable, but
I must take you at your word--your own word. Do you mean exactly what
you've said, and done?"

Again the moisture sprang to Armstrong's face, but this time there