"My son, nothing surprises me any more, not even virtue and honesty. This girl may be all you think her. Personally I never met any like her, but I've read about them in sentimental fiction. No doubt there's a basis for such popular heroines. There may have been such paragons. There may be yet. Perhaps you've collided with one of these feminine curiosities." "I have." "All right, Clive. Only, why linger longer in the side-show than the price of admission warrants? The main tent awaits you. In more modern metaphor; it's the same film every hour, every day, the same orchestrion, the same environment. You've seen enough. There's nothing more--if I clearly understand your immaculate intentions. Do I?" "Yes," said Clive, reddening. "All right; there's nothing more, then. It's time to retire. You've had your amusement, and you've paid for it like a gentleman--very much like a gentleman--rather exorbitantly. That's the way a gentleman always pays. So now suppose you return to your own sort and coyly reappear amid certain circles recently neglected, and which, at one period of your career, you permitted yourself to embellish and adorn with your own surpassing personality." They both laughed; there had been, always, a very tolerant understanding between them. Then Clive's face grew graver. "Father," he said, "I've tried remaining away. It doesn't do any good. The longer I stay away from her, the more anxious I am to go back.... It's really friendship I tell you." "You're not in love with her, are you, Clive?" The son hesitated: "No!... No, I can't be. I'm very certain that I am not." "What would you do if you were?" "But--" "What would you _do_ about it?" "I don't know." "Marry her?" "I couldn't do that!" muttered Clive, startled. Then he remained silent, his mind crowded with the component parts of that vague sum-total which had so startled him at the idea of marrying Athalie Greensleeve. Partly his father's blunt question had jarred him, partly the idea of marrying anybody at all. Also the mere idea of the storm such a proceeding would raise in the world he inhabited, his mother being the storm-centre, dispensing anathema, thunder, and lightning, appalled him. "What!" "I couldn't do _that_," he repeated, gazing rather blankly at his father. "You could if you _had_ to," said his father, curtly. "But I take your word it couldn't come to that." The boy flushed hotly, but said nothing. He shrank from comprehending such an impossible situation, ashamed for himself, ashamed for Athalie, resenting even the exaggerated and grotesque possibility of such a thing--such a monstrous and horrible thing playing any part in her life or in his. The frankness and cynicism of Bailey, Sr., had possibly been pushed too far. Clive became restless; and the calm entente cordiale ended for a while.