mouth. Her desire was accomplished in a real kiss. The fire, in heavy
flames, had poured through her to Siegmund, from Siegmund to her. It
sank, and she felt herself flagging. She had not the man's brightness
and vividness of blood. She lay upon his breast, dreaming how beautiful
it would be to go to sleep, to swoon unconscious there, on that rare
bed. She lay still on Siegmund's breast, listening to his heavily
beating heart.

With her the dream was always more than the actuality. Her dream of
Siegmund was more to her than Siegmund himself. He might be less than
her dream, which is as it may be. However, to the real man she was
very cruel.

He held her close. His dream was melted in his blood, and his blood ran
bright for her. His dreams were the flowers of his blood. Hers were more
detached and inhuman. For centuries a certain type of woman has been
rejecting the 'animal' in humanity, till now her dreams are abstract,
and full of fantasy, and her blood runs in bondage, and her kindness is
full of cruelty.

Helena lay flagging upon the breast of Siegmund. He folded her closely,
and his mouth and his breath were warm on her neck. She sank away from
his caresses, passively, subtly drew back from him. He was far too
sensitive not to be aware of this, and far too much of a man not to
yield to the woman. His heart sank, his blood grew sullen at her
withdrawal. Still he held her; the two were motionless and silent for
some time.

She became distressedly conscious that her feet, which lay on the wet
grass, were aching with cold. She said softly, gently, as if he was her