to love a man who must be afraid of other men. What right have I to
ask any woman to share my life?"

"But, Hugh--if I love you?"

"And you do love me?" he asked.

"Yes."

He laughed out at that, stood up, drawing her to stand beside him.
"Bella--Pete," he called, "do you hear--you two?" He beckoned them
close, laid a hand on them, drew first one, then the other toward
Sylvie. "She loves me. She sees me as I am!" Suddenly he put his
grizzled head on Sylvie's shoulder and wept. She felt her way back
to the chair, sat down, and drew him to kneel with his arms about
her, her head bent over him, her small hands caressing him. She looked
at Pete for help, for explanations, but she could not see his pale,
tormented face.

After a while Hugh was calm and sat at her feet, smoking. But he was
unnaturally silent, and his eyes brooded upon her haggardly.

It was several days before Hugh regained his old vigor and buoyancy;
then it came to life like an Antaeus flung down to mother earth. His
hour of doubt, of self-distrust, of compunction, was whirled away
like an uprooted tree on the flood of his happiness. He flung reason
and caution to the four winds; he dared Bella or Pete to betray him,
he played his heroic part with boisterous energy; his tongue wagged
like a tipsy troubadour's. What an empty canvas, a palette piled with
rainbow tints, a fistful of clean brushes would be to an artist long