She quickly regained her equanimity. “Not bad as far as it goes,” she said. “But you haven’t touched on the worst things.” Her quiet bitterness struck a little fear into Wilfred’s breast. _Was_ there an unsuspected worst in Frances Mary? Oh, well, he was committed now; no choice but to struggle on. “You have one quality that I hold to through all,” he said; “your disinterestedness. The finest quality of all!” Her smile became still more remote. “Oh, it’s easy to be disinterested about things that don’t touch you too closely,” she said. This was a facer for Wilfred. He strove not to show it. “I’ll take my chance of your soundness,” he said. She shook her head. “Passion, preposterous as it is, is the only justification.” “I could love you—if you gave me a chance,” he said sullenly. Frances Mary laughed suddenly and merrily. “I know I’m ridiculous,” he said blushing crimson; “but I mean to see it through. It’s all got to come out, absurdities and all.” “Why marry at all?” she asked. “I want you.” She looked at him. “Well . . . need you.” “As a sort of antidote to passion, I take it,” said Frances Mary softly. All the kindness had suddenly gone out, leaving her soft face pinched and awry. Wilfred was stung beyond endurance. “Yes!” he cried, jumping up. “An antidote to passion! I’ve seen it and what it ends in. Am I criminal or foolish to dream of something better? I looked on you as a woman above prejudice. It’s easy enough to make a joke of me because I’m not playing the old false game with you. You’ve got everything on your side, the whole weight of the ages! But I won’t be so easily shut up now; my foolishness has taught me something. There’s something to be said for my way, though I’m alone in it. It’s my real self I’m offering you; though I sound like a fool.” She had risen too, and walked away to a table between the windows where she stood with her back turned. “I’m sorry, Wilfred,” she said in a muffled voice. “I shouldn’t have said that.” When she apologized, it took all the fire out of him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said flatly. Presently, she turned around; but, the light being behind her, he could not see her face clearly. “Your position is sound,” she said, “and you have stated it better than you think. . . . Still, what you ask is impossible. For two reasons; first, I am not the woman you think I am; second, I must think of myself a little.” The cold voice completed Wilfred’s demoralization. “I only admit the second reason,” he said gloomily. “Of course you must think of yourself. I am seeking _my_ good.” “Why should I marry you?” “If you put it to me, the Lord knows!” “I do not think you are the finest man I ever knew. In fact I have no illusions about you.” “So much the better,” he mumbled. “Then why? why?” “Well, I thought. . . .” “You thought I loved you?” she asked quickly. “Not so far as that. I thought perhaps you might come to. There was sympathy. . . .”