The Fighting Chance

"Quite flawless--perfect," he said aloud to himself.

"Do you--read hands?"

"Vaguely." He touched the smooth palm: "Long life, clear mind, and"--he laughed--"heart supreme over reason! There is written a white lie--but a pretty one."

"It is no lie."

He laughed again, unconvinced.

"It is the truth," she said, seriously insisting and bending sideways above her own hand where it lay in his. "It is a miserable confession to admit it, but I'm afraid intelligence would fight a losing battle with heart if the conflict ever came. You see, I know, having nobody to study except myself all these years. … There is the proof of it--that selfish, smooth contour, where there should be generosity. Then, look at the tendency of imagination toward mischief!" She laid her right forefinger on the palm of the left hand which he held, and traced the developments arising in the Mount of Hermes. "Is it not a horrid hand, Mr. Siward? I don't know how much you know about palms, but--" She suddenly flushed, and attempted to close her hand, doubling the thumb over. There was a little half-hearted struggle, freeing one of his arms, which fell, settling about her slender waist; a silence, a breathless moment, and he had kissed her. Her lips were warm, this time.

She recovered herself, avoiding his eyes, and moved backward, shielding her face with pretty upflung elbows out-turned. "I told you it was becoming a habit with you!" The loud beating of her pulses marred her voice. "Must I establish a dead-line every time I commit the folly of being alone with you?"

"I'll draw that line," he said, taking her in his arms.

"I--I beg you will draw it quickly, Mr. Siward."

"I do; it passes through your heart and mine!"

"Is--do you mean a declaration--again? You are compromising yourself, you know. I warn you that you are committing yourself."

"So are you. Look at me!"

In his arms, her own arms pressed against his breast, resisting, she raised her splendid youthful eyes; and through and through her shot pulse on pulse, until every nerve seemed aquiver.

"While I'm still sane," he said with a dry catch in his throat, "before I tell you that I love you, look at me."

"I will, if you wish," she said with a trembling smile, "but it is useless--"

"That is what I shall find out in time. … You must meet my eyes. That is well; that is frank and sweet--"

"And useless--truly it is. … Please don't tell me--anything."

"You will not listen?"

"There is no chance for you--if you mean love. I--I tell you in time, you see. … I am utterly frivolous--quite selfish and mercenary."