To Evelyn, these daily meetings with Farquharson were the fulfilment of a great ambition. She had wanted this ideal companionship all her life; the real "give and take" from which alone happy marriages are formed, if men and women would but realize the fact. It seemed to Evelyn that to be useful to such a man as Farquharson, to be at hand whenever he wanted her, and away when her presence might have been a distraction, to listen and understand his aims while keeping her independent judgment, to share the undramatic part of his work and leave him the substantial success, was a task any woman might be proud of. She threw herself with absolute ardour into his most minute interests and schemes; after a time he trusted her even with the outline of plans which had not yet taken tangible shape, recognizing the value of her quick perceptions and sincerity. "You limit my acquaintances, but you yourself know far too many people," said Farquharson one day abruptly. "They make claims upon you and you give in to them. When I left you the other day there were four people waiting in the dining-room, pensioners, claimants, I don’t know what they were, but they annoyed me. You are a woman who could do something if you set your mind to it. If these good folks want sympathy, let them go to an idle or frivolous person who can afford to spend on them the time you should devote to better things. Every one should have a set purpose in life; trivial claims and small anxieties distract one in spite of oneself." "What set purpose can there be in the life of an ordinary woman of no especial talent?" said Evelyn. "Only women of genius have real lives of their own. Most of us are like poor little Alice—’part of the Red King’s dream’—or some one else’s. If I died to-morrow, some of my friends would canonize me and the rest forget. As far as acquaintances go, one divides them into two sets: those one likes to know, and those who like to know one. I am nice to the first because I want to be, and nice to the second because I ought. I am not applying the rule to you, of course—what is selfishness in a woman is singleness of purpose in a man, remember." Farquharson frowned. "Leave cynicism to others. By the way, we haven’t looked at my morning letters yet." At the Wereminsters’ dinner party a week later, Farquharson was paired off with Dora Beadon, encased as usual in her unyielding armour of self-esteem. It was a compliment for which he was not perhaps sufficiently grateful. He always found Miss Beadon dull, but to-night she harassed him with a stream of impertinent questions intended to show sympathy: "Why on earth don’t you do this? Haven’t you really done the other? Everybody says——" and so forth.