And he was not content. It was what he expected, what he wanted. It confirmed him, justified him, was his own definite belief. But it disappointed him. He had wanted opposition, that he might overcome it. Her certainty disconcerted him, caused him to feel curiously aggrieved. How could she be so sure?... One laid down hard and fast rules; but there would always be exceptional cases.... Was there, after all, no middle way?... As if she had known his thoughts she began to speak her own, freely and easily, as they came to her. For she had gained something in the last minute, and she knew it. Beggared she might be—but she was free—free at last to be herself with Justin—hoping nothing—fearing nothing. “After all,” she meditated, “you say ‘falling in love.’ But what do you mean? Where will you draw the line? What is love? Are there two people alive who mean precisely the same thing? And yet it is the same thing. Just as all the gods—are God. Manifested,” she smiled over her long words—“in endless diversity. Lancelot and Guinevere—Darby and Joan. But it’s all love.” He half listened, her words interlacing his thought like woof threading a web. What, after all, did he mean—did he want?... Yesterday’s half forgotten verses flickered upon his mind— _Flower o’ the broom?_ Maybe.... _Flower o’ the pine?_ Not that, at least!... But what _did_ he want?... Romance, he supposed.... Yes, he asked of Life romance.... And she tossed him—Laura!... With such an air, too, of knowing what was good for him!... Other men adventured as they chose ... over hell—under heaven ... but Life had always grandmothered him, he thought, with a new resentful flash of insight. Romance ... the ideal woman ... with mystery in her eyes.... Yet would he after all find a position of perpetual adoration comfortable?... Would Romance darn his trousers when they rubbed through at the knees?... He smiled. Laura would.... Yes—one came back to Laura.... And if there were no mystery in Laura’s eyes, whose was the fault?... Laura—Laura—a singing name.... He wished he could make up his mind.... He wished she would say something to him.... But Laura sat silent. Knowing him as she knew her Bible, she was generally aware of the trend of his thoughts, for his simplicity was always naïvely defeating his reserve. She felt, she knew, how easily because unconsciously, a word from her, a glance, a gesture even, might weigh down, at that moment, the balanced scales. And two years ago she would have had no scruples: would have snatched at happiness as a child snatches at a robin, curious, friendly, hopping closer and closer. But now she could sit quiet, light-breathing, letting it query and advance, and retreat and advance again, letting it flit from knee to hand, from hand to shoulder, to perch there singing its song to her, to stay with her or fly away again at its own will.