But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. He was disquieted. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. Parbleu, but I will certainly kill him this time. “What makes you ask such a question, Vee?” she said. I love you all the more for the streak of sheer devil in you.
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