"Oh," murmured the woman at the table, rather protestingly. "I mean that it will end in nothing, it will soon fade. But it shows that the child has imagination; Garda Thorne will love, some of these days; a real love." "Yes; that requires imagination." "My sentences were not connected, they did not describe each other. What I meant was that the way the child has gone into this--this little beginning--shows that she will be capable of deep feelings later on." Margaret did not reply. "There are plenty of excellent women who are quite incapable of them," pursued Winthrop, conscious that he had, as he expressed it to himself, taken the bit in his teeth again, but led on by the temptation which, more and more this winter, Margaret's controlled silences (they always seemed controlled) were becoming to him. "And the curious point is that they never suspect their own deficiencies; they think that if they bestow a prim, well-regulated little affection upon the man they honor with their choice, that is all that is necessary; certainly it is all that the man deserves. I don't know what we deserve; but I do know that we are not apt to be much moved by such affection as that. They are often very good mothers," he added, following here another of his tendencies, the desire to be just--a tendency which often brought him out at the end of a remark where people least expected. "Don't you think that important?" said Margaret. "Very. Only let them not, in addition, pretend to be what they are not." "I don't think they do pretend." "You're right, they're too self-complacent. They're quite satisfied with themselves as they are." "If they are satisfied, they are very much to be envied," began Margaret. "She's going to defend herself," thought Winthrop. "It's a wonder she hasn't done so before; to save my life, I don't seem to be able to resist attacking her." But Margaret did not go on. She took up the last sprays and looked at them. "Then you think I had better let her talk on, without checking her," she said, returning to the original topic between them. "You think I had better not try to guide her?" "Refused again!" thought Winthrop. "Guide her to what?" he said, aloud. "Not _to_ anything. Away--away from Lucian Spenser." "Then you don't like him?" he said, questioningly. "He is very handsome," answered Margaret, smiling. "But that isn't what we're discussing, that isn't advice." "Let her talk as she pleases--that is my advice; let her string out all her adjectives. My idea is that, let alone, it will soon exhale; opposition would force it into an importance which it does not in reality possess. Are you going?" "Yes, I have finished. But I shall remember what you say." And she left the room, carrying the flowers with her.