Part 39 (1/2)

”You aren't quite fair, Lawrence,” she protested. ”In so far as the church makes for a stronger socialization, it is a good.”

”But does it always promote that very effectively? Most of the socialization could be better carried on where really educated people were educators. The few of them there are in our schools now are hampered as much as they are helped by the church.”

”I don't agree,” she said. ”The church does hamper education in higher branches, undoubtedly, but in the kindergartens and grades it is a good.”

”I don't know,” he responded; ”I never saw it.”

”Well,” she cried suddenly, and laughed, ”whatever we think of the church, I agree that religion isn't always there, and when it is, barring a few liberal exceptions, it is generally misdirected.”

”And here you and I sit in the Andes Mountains talking when we might be making love,” he laughed.

”And here we are making love under the pretense of being intellectual,”

she rejoined. ”What would we do without the dear deceptions that make us such pitiably delightful animals?”

”We'd be a hopelessly unimaginative set of eaters.” His answer was quick. ”I am convinced that it is our very power to deceive, plan grand follies, though petty in deeds, that makes us artists, dreamers, thinkers, and statesmen.”

”Perhaps,” she agreed, and then slipped her arms around him suddenly.

”Is that what makes us able lovers, too?”

He laughed. ”By Jove, I believe it is!” he exclaimed. ”Well, old universal tangle, I do truly thank you for the power to be a foolish, deceived, human being. Hurrah for the instinct that makes me call you my divine necessity, Claire.”

She laughed happily and leaned against his shoulder.

”For any instinct or deception that makes you more enjoyable, let us give thanks,” he repeated.

”And for all the dear bodily claims that make me your adored one I do give thanks, Lawrence,” she whispered.

Their lips met again. She drew back startled, and sprang to her feet with a cry of terror.

Philip stood in the doorway, looking at them with a face from which all human sentiment was gone. He was a raging beast.

”Lawrence,” she screamed. ”Philip!”

Her lover sprang to his feet. Now he realized his blindness and its true handicap. Philip was there, somewhere before him, thinking what he could not know. He waited, every muscle strained with expectant fear and anger.

Claire was staring at Philip with abject terror in her face. Lawrence could not know that, he only heard her breathing heavily, and instinctively his arm went out to her.

”Don't be afraid, dear,” he said tenderly.

The man in the door uttered an exclamation. ”So”--and his words were sharp as icicles--”that is your d.a.m.ned wanton way. You are the second harlot I have loved.”

Lawrence started forward angrily.

”Fool!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

Claire's warning scream gave him just time to brace his body. Philip had sprung at him like a wild beast, and the impact of his weight sent Lawrence staggering backward. In that moment the Spaniard's hand closed on his throat. The blind man was paying the price of his defect in his long-talked-of primitive battle for life.

Even then he thought of the scene as it must be, and smiled bitterly, while his hand went to his throat and tore at the wrist that was steeling itself to rob him of breath.

Had he been able to see, the fight would still have been unequal. Philip was taller, wirier, and quicker on his feet. Lawrence's one advantage lay in his keen, quick response to touch sensation, and that gave him his sense of direction and ability to move rightly.