Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 74: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

544 the poise of the white throat, flowering from the somber black of the dress, the proud tilt of the chin, the promise of maturity in the curving lines of cheek and arm, and if he failed to reproduce the glow and fire and texture of her hair, it was because no man could. “Ts it not good?” she asked. “ Here- ward, he worked so long.” “Tt is beautiful!” he breathed. ‘“ It is you—you, Denise—” She turned to him gayly, a flash of milk- white teeth between the parted lips, and guickly—so quickly that he hardly knew it was happening—the ten-thousand-year- old savage that hides within the heart of every man, melted the veneer of civilization. His arms closed about her lithe waist, crushed her, bent her toward him and he kissed her twice on the mouth. She strug- gled for a moment and relaxed, eyes closed, in his arms. Conscience-stricken, he fell back, releas- ing her. ““ Monsieur!” she said, and held her hand against her flaming cheek, her eyes still closed. “T’m lower than a snake,” he mumbled, and felt it was totally inadequate. “ Why — did — you — do —that?” she breathed. “Because I’m not fit to be trusted near you—because I’m a beast! A rotter! I’m not fit to be here. I belong in a barrack room—and I’ll take myself away now—” She made no answer, seemed to look through and beyond him, her hand still against her cheek. It was still there, white against red, like the white hind on the red field that had been the arms of the Lorollais for centuries, long after the studio door had slammed behind him. : ——>—- + ——— CHAPTER XV. CONCERNING LOVE, TREACHERY, AND WAR. ARMON strode along the country road, between the tall hedge rows of Surrey—the quaint, peaceful Eng- lish countryside of nursery rime—and fable -—and, head down and shoulders hunched, ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. told himself what he thought of himse‘f, which is an excellent thing for any one who has committed a great and crowning blun- der, or a black and deadly sin. He felt he had been guilty of both. If he had been older and wiser in the ways of women and the world, he would have eased his conscience with specious argument and explained everything satis- factorily to himself with long-winded so- phistry. But, then, if he had been so wise and case-hardened he would not have wasted his substance on the lightsome Do- rine in the first place, and we would have found no interest in him at all, and if a man is fundamentally honest with himself by nature no amount of sophistry will do. That he had violated Tremanner’s hos- pitality by an exhibition of brutality—the expression was Harmon’s—toward some one in Tremanner’s care, was bad enough. But Harmon was convinced he had done worse than that—taken advantage of an inex- perienced young girl’s hero worship, and most deadly blunder of all, lost what slim chances he might have had of seeing Denise again. In the three miles he had traveled in the direction of Camberham barracks after leaving Tremanner’s home so hurriedly, there had been time for thought and thought was not consoling. He had dis- gusted Denise and lost her for good—and it had not taken him the three full miles © to realize how priceless and desirable Denise had become to him in a remarkably short time. He climbed to the top of a hill and the lights of the barracks—dimmed to guard against Zeppelin raids—showed below. He eased his pace. 7 Well, he wouldn’t bother her again. May- be the Dorines of the world were his speed after all. But he rebelled against that thought, too. One thing was sure—he wouldn’t risk seeing the contempt in those dark-fringed gray eyes and see her turn away from him. He would keep out of the way. It wouldn’t — be hard to do that, for there were very few week-ends now in England. The training squad he was in was almost ready to go over. 3 44 .OO €o mic