"And then," she continued, "and then one day when your luncheon has disagreed with you--you walk into a gallery and see a portrait of--of an old friend for whom in youth, when you were a dreamer, you professed a sentimental attachment, and you exclaim that the artist is a discerning man who has discovered the secret that she has guarded so closely. She's sorry that she ever tried to console herself with baubles it's what you've suspected all along. But you'll just run around to see for yourself--to be sure of it." And she handed me my tea. "Come now, confess. Where are your wits--I hear you don't lack them in court." "Well," I said, "if that amuses you--" "It does amuse me," said Nancy, twining her fingers across her knee and regarding me smilingly, with parted lips, "it amuses me a lot--it's so characteristic." "But it's not true, it's unjust," I protested vigorously, smiling, too, because the attack was so characteristic of her. "What then?" she demanded. "Well, in the first place, my luncheon didn't disagree with me. It never does." She laughed. "But the sentiment--come now--the sentiment? Do you perceive any hint of emptiness--despair?" Our chairs were very close, and she leaned forward a little. "Emptiness or no emptiness," I said a little tremulously, "I know that I haven't been so contented, so happy for a long time." She sat very still, but turned her gaze on the fire. "You really wouldn't want to find that, Hugh," she said in another voice, at which I exclaimed. "No, I'm not being sentimental. But, to be serious, I really shouldn't care to think that of you. I'd like to think of you as a friend--a good friend--although we don't see very much of one another." "But that's why I came, Nancy," I explained. "It wasn't just an impulse--that is, I've been thinking of you a great deal, all along. I miss you, I miss the way you look at things--your point of view. I can't see any reason why we shouldn't see something of each other--now--" She continued to stare into the fire. "No," she said at length, "I suppose there isn't any reason." Her mood seemed suddenly to change as she bent over and extinguished the flame under the kettle. "After all," she added gaily, "we live in a tolerant age, we've reached the years of discretion, and we're both too conventional to do anything silly--even if we wanted to--which we don't. We're neither of us likely to quarrel with the world as it is, I think, and we might as well make fun of it together. We'll begin with our friends. What do you think of Mr. Scherer's palace?" "I hear you're building it for him."