"And now, tell me, how has life been treating you?" he asked, as he looked first at her, and then with more eager interest at his pointed polished finger-nails. Before she could answer, he went on: "And that book on architecture that I sent you--tell me, have you read it?" "Every word." This was perfectly true; she could have passed an examination in it. "That's delightful. Then, now that you know something about it, I should like very much to take you to Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's, or to see one of those really beautiful old cathedrals. ... We must plan it out." "Oh, please do. I revel in old things," she said, thinking the remark would please him. He arranged his buttonhole of Parma violets, then looked up at her, smiling. "Do you mean that at your age you really appreciate the past?" "Indeed, I do." "But you mustn't live for it, you know--not over-value it. You must never forget that, after all, the great charm of the past is that it is over. One must live for the hour, for the moment. ... You'll remember that, won't you?" "Oh yes, I _do_," she said gratefully, taking a bite of cream cake. "What they call Futurism (I hope you understand) is absolute rubbish and inconsistent nonsense. For this reason. It's impossible to enjoy the present or the future if you eliminate the past entirely, as the so-called Futurists wish to do. Destruction of old associations and treasures would ruin one's sense of proportion; it's worse than living in the prehistoric. Besides, at least we know what _has_ happened, and what _is_ happening, but we can't possibly know what is _going_ to be, what the future holds for us; so what's the point of thinking only of that? Why should we live only for posterity, when, as the old joke says, posterity has done nothing for us!" "Well, the truth is _I_ always feel nothing matters except now," said Madeline candidly. He laughed. "And, in a way, you're right; it's all we're quite sure of." "Yes, I'm afraid it is." "By the way," he said, dropping his instructive manner, "can you tell me where you get your hats? Do you mind?" "Oh yes, of course I can; at several places. This one came from----" She hesitated a moment. "Paquin?" he asked, in a low, mysterious voice. "Selfridge," she replied. "Oh, I didn't know you were a Selfridgette! But, please forgive my asking, won't you? Someone who didn't seem to know ... I mean, a friend of mine. ... Oh, well, I know you don't mind telling me." He looked hard at her hat, could find no fault with it. Evidently its value was not diminished in his eyes. He was rather gratified that it did not come from some impossibly costly place. This pleased her; it was a good sign. Satisfaction at a moderate indication of economy suggested serious intentions. "It suits you very well," he went on, in his kind, approving way. "Now, will you give me another cup of tea?" She poured it out rather shakily. "No sugar, please."