The bitterness in his face softened. “If all the world were like you,” he began with a little laugh, and paused. “I’m glad they’re not, though. There must only be one Miss Page. But that’s it,” he went on, “I must know people well--better than one could ever know them in the rush of a London practice, where the polished manner I don’t possess is absolutely necessary.” There was a silence, while they walked the length of the grass path together. “I ought never to have married Madge,” he broke out at last, in a low voice. “She’s too pretty, and too gay by nature, for a slow coach like me. This village life is too dull for her. She wants her dances, her theatres”--he made a vague gesture--“all that sort of thing. I can’t make her happy.” There was a note of sad discouragement in his voice which went to his listener’s heart. “I think you could,” she said. He turned his head sharply. “How?” The involuntary hope died. He shook his head. “She’s bored with me.” “Partly I think, because she imagines you are bored with her.” He started. “_I?_ Bored with Madge?” He stopped, as though suddenly arrested, and stood staring down at the grass. “I--I don’t think you understand how much I--care for Madge. She’s the only woman I ever wanted to marry. I----” His voice failed. Miss Page saw that his face was working. “I _do_ know. Better than any one, perhaps. But I don’t think you understand her.” He looked at her mutely, waiting for her next words. “You think of her as a butterfly, don’t you? A woman with no brains, perhaps? Oh! I know,” she interrupted, as he made a gesture of protest. “I know that would make no difference.” She smiled a little. “A man doesn’t want the woman he loves to have brains. But they are useful sometimes. In her case they may be very useful. She would like a life of gaiety, of course. She’s young and pretty, and it’s only natural. But she can’t have it. Very well then, if she were nothing but a butterfly, her lot--and yours, would be hard. But Madge has a mind. Oh, she’s ignorant, of course! She says so herself. She never reads. She never thinks. But that’s habit. No one has ever taken any trouble with her. Did you notice how interested she was the evening we were really talking--the evening Monsieur Fontenelle dined here? She was proud of you then. She wished she could take part in the conversation. Her mind is empty because she has never troubled to fill it. But it’s a mind of good quality. She has the power to be interested in a thousand things. You could open a new world to her, if you were careful--and had a little tact. And we all know that you possess that admirable quality!” The flattery of her smile was not lost upon the doctor. Surprise, involuntary hope, gratitude, admiration, all struggled in the look with which he regarded her.