"Oh, Danny—" She smiled.
"He is my friend, and your husband. If he knew—"
"Danny won't mind, dear," she said.
Her words carried conviction. Somehow he knew that Dan wouldn't mind.
He sat down on the hard couch that faced the windows, drew her down beside him, and put his arm around her shoulder.
Her hand, which sought and found his, was very steady and very cool.
He did not speak; neither did she. Twisting his head sidewise, he looked at her.
She was in shadow from the shoulder downward. Only her face was sharply defined in the moonlight. The scarlet lips seemed to swim to him along the slanting, glistening rays, and he leaned over.
There was hunger in his soul, in his mind, in his heart, in his body.
"I am going to play the game!"
The words came from very far, from across the bitter bridge of years, with the jarring, dissonant shock of a forgotten reproach.
"Dear, dear heart!" he whispered.
