from high school into the already enormously rich firm, had almost
doubled its volume of business.

The kind of sweetness he found in Alma he could never articulate even to
himself. In some ways she seemed hardly to have the pressure of vitality
to match his, but, on the other hand, just that slower beat to her may
have heightened his sense of prowess.

His greatest delight seemed to lie in her pallid loveliness. "White
honeysuckle," he called her, and the names of all the beautiful white
flowers he knew. And then one night, to the rattle of poker chips from
the remote dining room, he jerked her to him without preamble, kissing
her mouth down tightly against her teeth.

"My sweetheart! My little white carnation sweetheart! I won't be held
off any longer. I'm going to carry you away for my little moonflower
wife."

She sprang back prettier than he had ever seen her in the dishevelment
from where his embrace had dragged at her hair.

"You mustn't," she cried, but there was enough of the conquering male in
him to read easily into this a mere plating over her desire.

"You can't hold me at arm's length any longer. You've maddened me for
months. I love you. You love me. You do. You do," and crushed her to
him, but this time his pain and his surprise genuine as she sprang back,
quivering.

"No, I tell you. No! No! No!" and sat down trembling.