he were standing in a garden of narcotics, and lassitude were stealing
through his limbs. When she had gone, a single memory clung to him--the
memory of the wonderful texture of her skin. He had read in a child's
book of physiology that our skin breathes. The affirmation had meant
nothing to him beyond mechanics; now, suddenly, it meant much. He had
seen, felt, this woman's skin breathe, and its breath had been like the
fragrance of a flower.

For the first time in his life Lewis looked on woman with blind eyes.
During almost three weeks the years that he had lived in familiar
contact with women stood him in good stead. He never spoke to the
bright-eyed rival to the Duchess, but he watched her from afar. Men
swarmed about her. She stood them as long as they amused her, and then
would suddenly shake them all off. There were days when she would let no
one come near her. There was no day when any man could say he had been
favored above another.

Then came an evening when Lewis had dressed unusually early and slipped
up to the boat-deck to cool off before dinner. He sat down on a bench
and half closed his eyes. When he opened them again he saw a woman--the
woman, Folly Delaires--standing with her back to him at the rail. He had
not heard or seen her come. Almost without volition he arose and stepped
to the rail. He leaned on it beside her. She did not move away.

"I want to kiss you," said Lewis, and trembled as he heard his own
words.

The woman did not start. She turned her face slowly toward his.

"And I want you to," she said.