"Wholly," nodded Christina. "I love his mind and his soul. I am incapable of any other kind of love. I never want a man to draw my flaming head to his shoulder and whisper, that until he met me, the world was a desert, and food didn't taste good. It is because Ambrose Sault never paws me or holds my hand or kisses me on the brow in the manner of a father who hopes to be something closer, that I love him. And I shall love him through eternity. When I am dead and he is dead. And I want nothing more than this. If he were to die tomorrow, I should not grieve because his flesh means nothing to me. The thing he gives me is everlasting. That is where I am better off than you, Evie. You have nothing but what you give yourself. You think he gives you these wonderful memories which keep you awake at nights. You think it is his love for you that thrills you. It isn't that, Evie. Your love is the love of the martyr who finds an ecstatic joy in his suffering." Groping toward understanding, Evie seized this illustration. "God loves the martyr--it isn't one-sided," she quavered and Christina nodded. "That is true, or it may be true. Does your god love you?" "It is blasphemous to--to talk of Ronnie as God." "God with a small 'g'." "It is blasphemous anyhow. Ronnie does love me. He hasn't silly and conventional ideas about--about love as most people have. He is much broader-minded, but he does love me. I know it. A girl knows when a man loves her." "That is one of the things she doesn't know," interrupted Christina. "She knows when he wants her, but she doesn't know how continually he will want her. He is unconventional, too? And broad-minded? The broad-minded are usually people who take a generous view of their own shortcomings. Is he one of those unconventional souls who think that marriage is a barbarous ceremony?" "Who told you that?" Evie was breathless from surprise. "It isn't an unique view--broad-minded men often try to get narrow-minded girls to see that standpoint." "You're cynical--I hate cynical people," said Evie, throwing herself on her bed, "and you have all your ideas of life out of books, and the rotten people who come in here moaning about their troubles. You can't believe writers--not some writers--there are some, of course, that give just a true picture of life--not in books, but in articles in the newspapers. They just seem to know what people are thinking and feeling, and express themselves wonderfully." "Ah--so Ronnie writes for the newspapers, does he?" Evie's indignant retort was checked by a knock on the door. "That is Mr. Sault--can he come in?" "I suppose so," answered Evie grudgingly. She got off the bed and tied her dressing-gown more tightly. "I don't really show my legs through this kimono do I, Christina?" "Not unless you want to--come in!" Ambrose Sault looked tired. "Just looked in before I went to my room," he said. "Good evening, Evie." "Good evening, Mr. Sault."