“You won’t,” said Simon Beaulieu. “Neither shall I. There won’t be any question of getting on. Our respective unions will be marriages of convenience, business deals. They’ll proceed mechanically, like a couple of cars. Now and again some slight adjustment’ll be made, but, in the ordinary way, so long as they’re watered and fed, they’ll go right on. The chauffeur’ll do his bit and the car’ll do hers. No understanding will be necessary—there’ll be nothing to understand. If you stick to your book of instructions, it’s a fool-proof show. But ours—our marriage would have been like a man on a horse, journeying over the world day in day out, sharing fair weather and foul and getting to know each other inside out. Well, they get on or they don’t—a man and his horse. It’s a question of temperament. And there ain’t no book of the rules for dealin’ with temperaments.” Patricia laid her head against Simon’s shoulder. “Yes, there is, dear,” she said. “I’ve studied yours so often. You carry it in your eyes. I wonder if Estelle will be able to read it. I don’t think so. And mine. . . . Haven’t you ever read mine?” “Pat,” said Simon gently, “don’t make things worse. We agreed to wash Sentiment out.” “I know, I know. But don’t say we shouldn’t get on. Leave me my pretty dream.” “All right, lady. I—I dare say we should. But you never can tell,” he added, “and I don’t know that dreams aren’t rather dangerous things.” “D’you mean that I mustn’t dwell on what might have been?” “I think you should try not to. I mean, it’s unsettling. After all, we’re not madly in love. I don’t stop breathing when you go out of the room, and you don’t come over queer when I come in.” “I feel all pleased, Simon.” “That’s more fellow-feeling than love. I’m a congenial soul. We’ve fitted in very well, and that’s as much as you can say. We don’t give up things for one another. I haven’t pawned my boots to buy you a wrist-watch or soaked in money on flowerets. When I’ve given you dinner——” “I’ve chosen the place and the play. And you always give me melon because I like it so. And why have you asked me so many, many times?” “To please myself. You’re a congenial soul.” Patricia turned and lifted a beautiful leg. “Can you see?” she demanded, pointing. “I see your ankle, Pat, and your little foot.” The girl leaned back against the stone balustrade. “I dress to please you,” she said. “Even to-night. I put on light stockings to-night, when I should have worn dark. I like dark better, and I’d ’ve been more in the mode. But you like me in light stockings, Simon, and so I put them on. . . . I may be only congenial. I hope to God I am. You’ll get off lighter then. But . . . Well, Simon, it’s pretty obvious that I love you.” The man’s arms were about her, and his cheek pressed tight against hers.