"Life deals in paradoxes. Possibly that very thing might make one love
you."

Paul stood in the small room, feeling himself very small and
contemptible. The face of Loraine rose before his memory, beautiful and
petulant, appealing and regal, features of ivory with poppy-like lips,
dominated by dusky eyes and night-black hair.

Suddenly she seemed responsible for all his uncertainties. He saw her
just then as a Circe. He was a man, swung to an ebb and flow of mood by
influences outwardly as nebulous as moon-mists. Just now the influence
of Loraine Haswell was at ebb-tide. Tomorrow it might run again to
flood, but Paul Burton obeyed the prompting of the present.

With a low exclamation that was wordless and a face tense and white, he
was at the girl's side and his arms were again about her. She shook her
head and tried to draw away, but he only held her the more closely until
she raised her face and said patiently, "I'm very tired, don't make me
fight both myself and you."

The musician shook his head and talked fast. "You said when I kissed you
that you thought it meant something very different. You could have meant
only that you thought I loved you. But that was not all. Thinking that I
loved you would have meant nothing to you if you hadn't loved me--if you
didn't love me now. You do. You have just said, 'Don't make me fight
myself.' There would be no fight with yourself--if you didn't love me."

He paused and his arms held her very close, as he saw her turn away her
face and make an effort to release herself, but in the eyes that she