“Nothing worth while,” she insisted dogmatically. “It leaves out war.” “Perhaps war isn’t worth while.” “But there it is. The idea governed a good many million men for five years. And there wasn’t much intelligence back of it when you think it over in cold blood.” “Many were governed by the idea of self-protection and that’s intelligent.” “It’s more instinctive. And the instincts--are they intelligent?” He spoke rather more earnestly. She answered rather more cautiously: “When properly trained.” “But when properly trained we shouldn’t have instincts,” he laughed. “We should have only reason.” “Well?” “Having chased our tails we are back where we started.” “I don’t see it.” “Then let’s try again. Being sensible leaves out--love.” She moved her chair a trifle--to turn her face away from him and towards the flames. “Doesn’t it?” he asked. There was one good feature about that objectionable phrase of “I don’t know” which she was willing enough to admit; it furnished, at least, a convenient refuge. If ever she had wished to use it, that was now. Without some such retreat one was forced always to direct answers. “Perhaps you’re a better authority on love than I,” she parried. “You’re wrong,” he returned quickly. “I don’t know a thing about it except that, as far as one can observe, it isn’t always sensible.” “Your observations have been--extensive?” she queried. There was a touch of coquetry about her now that enlivened her mouth. Her profile, he thought, was several years younger than her full face. The gentle curves that outlined her lips and rounded chin were at this moment--she had unconsciously relaxed her usual control over them--those of a girl of eighteen. Allston leaned towards her, his long arms on his knees. “My observations cover a period of not more than a week or two,” he said. “No?” “And I can’t make head nor tail out of them.” “Your deductions may not be at all accurate,” she suggested. “They are scarcely scientific,” he admitted. “They are based upon a series of impulses.” “Impulses are dangerous,” she reminded him. “And yet they get hold of one,” he said tensely, “like instincts.” She rose upon the pretext of poking the fire. She rose instinctively--as one draws back at the approach of a flame. What was tempting her to reach out her hand and smooth the hair back from his troubled forehead? It was a little act of tenderness she sometimes indulged in with her father, but this man was not her father. Nor her brother. Nor bore any blood relationship with her whatsoever. The tenderness that sought expression in some definite act like this rather than in words, that demanded contact, was akin to mother love. Yet there was a difference; a distinct difference. Mother love is a result, born of the past. This emotion of hers was a desire urging her towards the future. It was more complex than mother love and more poignant. It was even less intelligent.