"Then," said the philosopher, "I see not the least reason for supposing that his feelings will change." "And would you advise her to marry the other--A?" "Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fellow (I think we made A a good fellow); he is a suitable match; his love for her is true and genuine----" "It's tremendous!" "Yes--and--er--extreme. She likes him. There is every reason to hope that her liking will develop into a sufficiently deep and stable affection. She will get rid of her folly about B and make A a good wife. Yes, Miss May, if I were the author of your novel, I should make her marry A, and I should call that a happy ending." A silence followed. It was broken by the philosopher. "Is that all you wanted my opinion about, Miss May?" he asked, with his finger between the leaves of the treatise on ontology. "Yes, I think so. I hope I haven't bored you?" "I've enjoyed the discussion extremely. I had no idea that novels raised points of such psychological interest. I must find time to read one." The girl had shifted her position till, instead of her full face, her profile was turned toward him. Looking away toward the paddock that lay brilliant in sunshine on the skirts of the apple orchard, she asked, in low, slow tones, twisting her hands in her lap: "Don't you think that perhaps, if B found out afterward--when she had married A, you know--that she had cared for him so very, very much, he might be a little sorry?" "If he were a gentleman, he would regret it deeply." "I mean--sorry on his own account; that--that he had thrown away all that, you know?" The professor looked meditative. "I think," he pronounced, "that it is very possible he would. I can well imagine it." "He might never find anybody to love him like that again," she said, gazing on the gleaming paddock. "He probably would not," agreed the philosopher. "And--and most people like being loved, don't they?" "To crave for love is an almost universal instinct, Miss May." "Yes, almost," she said, with a dreary little smile. "You see, he'll get old and--and have no one to look after him." "He will." "And no home." "Well, in a sense none," corrected the philosopher, smiling. "But really, you'll frighten me. I'm a bachelor myself, you know, Miss May." "Yes," she whispered just audibly. "And all your terrors are before me." "Well, unless----" "Oh, we needn't have that 'unless,'" laughed the philosopher cheerfully. "There's no 'unless' about it, Miss May." The girl jumped to her feet; for an instant she looked at the philosopher. She opened her lips as if to speak, and, at the thought of what lay at her tongue's tip, her face grew red. But the philosopher was gazing past her, and his eyes rested in calm contemplation on the gleaming paddock. "A beautiful thing, sunshine, to be sure," said he.