For in that one dazzled moment she had seen greatness in the boy beside her, had heard pulsing through his words a longing and a surge that carried her, too, up with him: up to the lonely starlit plateau of genius.

He shut his eyes an instant and turned to her blindly.

'You're sweet,' he whispered. 'I think you do understand'. With one quick motion he laid his head on her lap, and smiled up at her wickedly, as she froze. 'Don't look so shocked, my lovely little Theo—is that what they call you? My head is tired and this is such a soft place to rest. I think I could go to sleep.'

Her heart beat in thick, painful movements and the white fichu on her breast rose and fell. She tried to think and could not. She wanted to shove his head viciously away, and her muscles would not obey. A shiver shook her.

'What are you afraid of?' he asked softly. 'I won't harm you'. He gave a short laugh and sat up. Immediately relief flooded her, but with it a shamed disappointment.

He put gentle hands on her shoulders. 'You've never been kissed, have you, Theo? It's not such a terrible thing. I think you must have one for your birthday'. He drew her quickly toward him and pressed his fresh young mouth to hers. He let her go at once. 'See? It's not so dreadful a thing, is it?'

She gasped, laughing shakily. Not so dreadful a thing—no. Sweet, piercingly sweet, but unimportant. She had expected the blast of lightning and found a candle-flame, never disturbing the dark secret something that had lain, terrorstricken, deep in her soul. What had it been, what had she expected? She didn't know. Whatever it was, it had passed her by, leaving only a dimming memory of shame, repulsion, and disloyalty.

She smiled at him with calm affection. 'I must be getting back now. Father will be home soon. Thank you, good sir, for my birthday kiss.'

He surveyed her, frowning, puzzled. She was so pretty with her rose-and-white skin, soft black eyes, and eager smile. He had wanted to kiss her ever since she came this morning, and he had been sure that, barring maidenly modesty and all the rest, she wanted it too. He was not inexperienced in such matters. Now he had kissed her, briefly it was true, as a preliminary, and she had escaped into a bright and all too obviously genuine indifference. There was a strangeness about her, an untouchable quality.

'Theo,' he asked, with sudden inspiration, 'are you in love with someone?'

'Oh, no'. She faced him candidly. 'And I mean never to marry.'

'Stuff! Of course you'll marry'. The sense of humor, that never deserted him for long, returned. 'You're not in love with me, that's certain'. And he laughed.