This word, which he did not pronounce, even to himself, but which he seemed to see, as though his own hand had written it on a sheet of paper—this word filled him with terror. He burst out into secret protestations:
"But there's no question of love. She doesn't love me. I don't love her. It's a mere game. This child has made me a child like herself..."
He wanted to stop thinking, but the process went on of its own accord.
"A dangerous game.... I oughtn't to have kissed her eyes. Her forehead, that's a different matter; it's fatherly... And then letting her lean on my shoulder, like that! What's to be done?"
He had to admit that he had been the guilty party. Almost unconsciously, prompted by his mere male instinct, he had, since his arrival a fortnight before, and while still to all appearance, he continued to treat her as a child, been silently courting her. He was always looking at her, smiling to her, even though his words might be serious. Feeling herself the object of an unceasing attention, Rose had concluded that he wanted to capture her, and she had al-
