"You've ability. Serious ability--the kind this old world of ours needs. And you've this 'social conscience' with which the younger generation is cursed. You won't be content to waste yourself. What are you going to do? Somehow you've got to find a place where you'll seem to yourself useful. If not, you'd better commit suicide at once. If you're going to run to waste, at least spare yourself the shameful years. But no. You're not defeated enough for the arsenic bottle. "You've two kinds of ability. You pretend to despise this archæology--but nobody else does. The other ability is your grasp of social philosophy. For either career--and, wise as I am, I'm not sure which will be better for you--you need a quiet, orderly life, not a disturbing, disorderly romp like these last months. You need to be well kept, you need a wife." Walter smoked away quietly, but his face had turned haggard. "I don't want to hurt you," she went on relentlessly, "but Mabel Train isn't the only woman in the world." "She's the only one I ever especially noticed, till you came along." "Leave me out of this discussion. There's just the trouble. If you insist on keeping your eyes closed to the other women, you'd best run along and blow your fool head off at once. If you want a real life, open your eyes." "Well," he said with a wry smile, "I suppose you've got some victim to recommend. Whom shall I notice?" It was several minutes before she took up his challenge. "Why don't you notice Yetta Rayefsky?" "Yetta Rayefsky?" he repeated in amazement. "Yes. Why not? She's a fine girl, and she worships the ground you walk on." "You're joking." "Not at all. I know what I'm talking about. Perhaps she doesn't realize it herself, but she's very much in love with you." "The poor little girl!" "Yes. Of course. You ought to be sorry for her. You don't deserve it. But when it comes to that, did any man ever live who really deserved to have a woman love him? That's the tragedy of our sex. We have nothing better to love than mere men." There were no heroics over their separation. They went to town for supper. They were both sufficiently civilized to keep up the appearance of gayety. Just before the train started she leaned out of the window of her compartment and tossed him a final challenge. "Walter," she said, "I'm more fortunate than you. I know what I'm going to do next. Better not waste time deciding. You know what my advice is. Go back to New York and get married." But there was no agreement in his face as the train pulled out.