The girl remained silent, and Dorn watched her face. He might embrace her and make love. It would perhaps flatter, please her. She fancied him a man of astounding genius. She had practically memorized his book. Thus, one had only to smile humorlessly, permit one's eyes to grow enigmatic, and think of a proper epigram. He recalled for an instant the two women who had succumbed to his technique since he had left America. They blurred in his memory and became offensive. Yet Matty had been of service and perhaps her moodiness was caused by a suppressed affection. As an amorous prospect she was not without interest. As a reality, however, she would obviously become a bore. In any case there was nothing to hinder polite investigation, mark time with kisses until von Stinnes brought on his promised revolution. He thought carefully. Pessimism was the proper note. Dramatize with an epigram the emptiness of life. His forte--emptiness. Not love but a hunger to live. "Matty, I regret sadly that you are not a prostitute." Startling! "It would save me the trouble of having to fall in love with you, dear child." She smiled, a sudden amusement in her eyes. "You too, Mr. Dorn. I had thought different of you." "As a creature beyond the petty agitations, eh?" "As a man." "It is possible for a Man, despite a capital M, to love." "Yes, love. It is possible for him only to love. And you do not." "Much worse. I am sad." "Why?" "Perhaps because it is the only emotion that comes without effort." "So you would fall in love with me to forget that I bore you." "A broader ambition than that. To forget that living bores me, Mathilde." "There is someone else you love, Mr. Dorn." "There was." He smiled humorlessly. "Do you mind if I talk of love? I need a conversational antidote." "And if you talk of love you may be spared the trouble of having to make love," she laughed quietly. "But I would rather talk of von Stinnes. I am worried." "You are young," Dorn interrupted, "and full of political error. I am beginning to believe von Stinnes. The most terrible result of the war has been the political mania it has given to women." Mathilde settled back on the divan and stared with mocking pensiveness at her shoes. Dorn, speaking as if he desired to smile, continued: "Do you know that when one has loved a woman one grows sad after it is ended, remembering not the woman, but one's self? The memory of her becomes a mirror that gives you back the image of something that has died--a shadow of youth and joy that still bears your name. It is the same with old songs, old perfumes. All mirrors. So I walk through life now smiling into mirrors that give back not myself, but someone else--another Dorn." He arose and looked down at her. "Does that interest you?" "I understand you." "There are many ways of making love. Sorrowful phrases are the most entertaining, perhaps." "You make me think you have loved too much."