She moved forward and Kemper, while he sprang to his feet and stood waiting for the introduction, became swiftly aware that with her entrance the whole atmosphere had taken a fresher and a finer quality.  The sophistication of the world, the flippant irony of Gerty’s voice gave place immediately before her earnest dignity and before the look of large humanity which distinguished her so vitally from the women whom he knew.  He felt her sincerity of purpose at the same instant that he felt Gerty’s shallowness and the artificial glamour of the hot-house air in which he had hardly drawn breath.  There was an appeal in Laura’s face which he had never seen before—­an expression which seemed to him to draw directly from the elemental pulse; and he felt suddenly that there were depths of consciousness which he had never sounded, vivid experiences which he had never even glimpsed.  “She is different—­but how is she different?” he asked himself, perplexed.  “Is she simply a bigger personality, or is she really more of a woman than any woman I have ever known?  What is it in her that speaks to me and what is it in myself that responds?” And it seemed to him both strange and wonderful that he should be drawn by an impulse which was not the impulse of love—­that a woman should attract him through qualities which were independent of the allurement of sex.  A clean and perfectly sane satisfaction was the immediate result; he felt that he had grown larger in his own eyes—­that the old Adam who had ruled over him so long had become suddenly dwarfed and insignificant.  “To like a woman and yet not to make love to her,” he repeated in his thoughts.  “By Jove, it will be something decent, something really worth while.”  Then he remembered that he had never known intimately a woman of commanding intellect, and the novelty inspired him with the spirit of fresh adventure.

She had bowed to him over the large muff she carried, and he spoke lightly though his awakened interest showed in his face and voice.  “I was the unfortunate subject of Gerty’s decision,” he said.  “Is there no appeal from it?”

Her answering smile was one of indifferent kindliness; and he liked, even while he resented her sincerity of manner.  “Appeal! and to whom?” she enquired.

“To you—­to your mercy,” he laughed.

She glanced at Gerty with a look which hardly simulated a curiosity she apparently did not feel.

“But why should you need my mercy?” she demanded, as she sat down on a little sofa heaped with cushions.

His gaze, after resting a moment on the smooth black hair beneath her velvet hat, turned to the exquisite shining waves which encircled Gerty’s head.

“Ask my cousin,” he advised with merriment.

Whatever Gerty’s reason for not caring to bring them together may have been, she concealed it now beneath a ready acceptance of the situation.

“Oh, he tried to make me promise to take him to see you,” she explained, “but I’ve told him you’d show him no quarter because he hasn’t read your poems.”