In his fiercest hour of debate, his hour of greatest trial, he had worn his mask, always master of himself and his speech.

And now he had cast it off.

His eyes were hungry, his lips twitched.
"As yesterday! Lucille, I could kill you when I think of those days.

For twenty years your kiss has lain upon my lips--and you--with you--it has been different." She laughed softly upon him, laughed more with her eyes than with her lips.

She watched him curiously.
"Dear me!" she murmured, "what would you have?
I am a woman--I have been a woman all my days, and the memory of one kiss grows cold.