"I don't suppose," she was saying--he had never heard those notes in
her voice before: they were gold, gold flute notes to melt rock-hard
self-control and touch the timbre of unknown chords within--"I don't
suppose anything ever was accomplished without somebody being willing
to fight a losing battle. Do you?" Wayland stretched out on the
ground at her feet.

"Eleanor, do you know, do you realize--?"

"Yes I know," she whispered.

And somehow, unpremeditated and half way, their hands met.

"Something wonderful has happened to us both to-night."

The sheen of the stars had come to her eyes. She could not trust her
glance to meet his. A compulsion was sweeping over her in waves,
drawing her to him--her free hand lay on his hair; her averted face
flushed to the warmth of his nearness.

"I don't suppose, Dick, that right ever did triumph till somebody was
willing to be crucified. Men die of vices every day; women snuff out
like candles. What's so heroic about a man more or less going down in
a good game fight--?"

He felt the tremor in her voice and her hands, in her deep breathing;
and his manhood came to rescue their balance in words that sounded
foolish enough: