"Then why should such a clearly defined impression be made on me? For every effect there must be a cause." She turned upon me suddenly, and her look was eager, searching, and almost imperious in its demand to know the truth. "Are you as sincere as you are unconventional?" she asked. I took off my hat, as I replied, with a smile, "A garden, Miss Warren, was the first sacred place of the world, and never were sincerer words spoken in that primal garden." She looked at me a moment wistfully, and even tearfully. "I wish you were right," she said, slowly shaking her head; "your strange mood has infected me, I think; and I will admit that to be true is the struggle of my life, but the effort to be true is often hard, bitterly hard, in New York. I admit that for years truthfulness has been the goal of my ambition. Most young girls have a father and mother and brothers to protect them: I have had only the truth, and I cling to it with the instinct of self-preservation." "You cling to it because you love it. Pardon me, you do not cling to it at all. Truth has become the warp and woof of your nature. Ah! here is your emblem, not growing in the garden, but leaning over the fence as if it would like to come in, and yet, among all the roses here, where is there one that excels this flower?" And I gathered for her two or three sprays of sweetbrier. "I won't mar your bit of Eden by a trace of affectation," she said, looking directly into my eyes in a frank and friendly manner; "I'd rather be thought true than thought a genius, and I will make allowance for your extravagant language and estimate on the ground of your intoxication. You surely see double, and yet I am pleased that in your transcendental mood I do not seem to make discord in this old garden. This will seem to you a silly admission after you leave this place and recover your everyday senses. I'm sorry already I made it--but it was such an odd conceit of yours!" and her heightened color and glowing face proved how she relished it. It was an exquisite moment to me. The woman showed her pleasure as frankly as a happy child. I had touched the keynote of her character as I had that of Adah Yocomb's a few hours before, and in her supreme individuality Emily Warren stood revealed before me in the garden. She probably saw more admiration in my face than she liked, for her manner changed suddenly. "Being honest doesn't mean being made of glass," she said brusquely; "you don't know anything about me, Mr. Morton. You have simply discovered that I have not a leaning toward prevarication. That's all your fine words amount to. Since I must keep up a reputation for telling the truth, I'm obliged to say that you don't remind me of Adam very much." "No, I probably remind you of a night editor, ambitious to be smart in print." She bit her lip, colored a little. "I wasn't thinking of you in that light just then," she said. "And--and Adam is not my ideal man." "In what light did you see me?"