"One needs leisure for dreams." He stood up suddenly and leaned against the mantelpiece. The atmosphere had become electric. "A good thing, too, as far as some of us are concerned. The last thing for a columnist to indulge in is dreams. Fine hash he'd have for his readers next morning!" "Do you mean to say that none of you clever young men fall in love?" "Every day in the week, some of them. They even marry--and tell fatuous yarns about their babies. No doubt some of them have even gloomed through brief periods of unreciprocated passion. But they don't look very romantic to me." "Romance is impossible without imagination, I should think. Aching for what you cannot have or falling in love reciprocally with a charming girl is hardly romance. That is a gift--like the spark that goes to the making of Art." "Are you romantic?" he asked harshly. "You look as if born to inspire romance--dreams--like a beautiful statue or painting--but mysterious as you make yourself--and, I believe, are in essence--I should never have associated you with the romantic temperament. Your eyes--as they too often are---- Oh, no!" "It is true that I have never had a romance." "You married--and very young." "Oh, what is young love! The urge of the race. A blaze that ends in babies or ashes. Romance!" "You have--other men have loved you." "European men--the type my lot was cast with--may be romantic in their extreme youth--I have never been attracted by men in that stage of development, so I may only suppose--but when a man has learned to adjust passion to technique there is not much romance left in him." "Are you waiting for your romance, then? Have you come to this more primitive civilization to find it?" She raised her head and looked him full in the eyes. "No, I did not believe in the possibility then." "May I have a high-ball?" "Certainly." He took his drink on the other side of the room. It was several minutes before he returned to the hearth. Then he asked without looking at her: "How do you expect to find romance if you shut yourself up?" "I wanted nothing less. As little as I wanted it to be known that I was here at all." "That damnable mystery! Who _are_ you?" "Nothing that you have imagined. It is far stranger--I fancy it would cure you." "Cure me?" "Yes. Do you deny that you love me?" "No, by God! I don't! But you take a devilish advantage. You must know that I had meant to keep my head. Of course, you are playing with me--with your cursed technique! . . . Unless . . ." He reached her in a stride and stood over her. "Is it possible--do you--_you_----" She pushed back her chair, and stood behind it. Her cheeks were very pink, her eyes startled, but very soft. "I do not admit that yet--I have been too astounded--I went away to think by myself--where I was sure not to see you--but--my mind seemed to revolve in circles. I don't know! I don't know!"