It was as she had thought—no romance, no love of the past. But the man had a certain power; there was no denying that. And his audacity and brutal frankness, so different from Cryder’s cold-blooded acting, fascinated her. “Oh, no! I do not think you a villain,” she said; “only I don’t see how you could have had the cruelty to——” “I am inclined to be faithful, Miss Suydam,” he interrupted. “In my extreme youth it was the reverse, but experience has taught me to appreciate and to hold on to certain qualities when I find them—for in combination they are rare. When one comes to the cross-roads, and shakes hands good-bye with Youth, his departing comrade gives him a little packet. The packet is full of seeds, and the label is ‘philosophy.’” “I found that packet long before I got to the cross-roads,” said Hermia, with a laugh—“that is, if I ever had any youth. How old are you?” “Oh, only thirty-four as yet. But I got to the cross-roads rather early. What do you mean by saying that you never had any youth?” “Nothing. Are all those European stories about you true?” “What stories?” “Oh! all those stories about women. They say you have had the most dreadful adventures.” Quintard shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what the stories are,” he said. “Nor do I particularly care. I am not posing as a masculine Circe or a destroyer of households. You must remember that there are more than two classes of women in the world. There are many women who are without any particular ties, who live a drifting, Bohemian sort of existence, who may have belonged to society once, but have exhausted it, and prefer the actualities of life. These women are generally the most companionable in every respect. And they are more or less indifferent to public opinion.” “I was sure of one thing!” exclaimed Hermia; “but, if possible, you have made me more sure: you have not a spark of romance in you.” An expression of shyness crossed Quintard’s face, and he hesitated a moment. “Oh, well, you know, nobody has in these days,” he said, awkwardly. “What would people do with romance? They would never find any one to share it.” “No,” said Hermia, with a laugh, “probably they would not.” He went away soon after, and she did not see him again for a week. Cryder came the next night, and Hermia had never liked him less. He was as entertaining as usual, but he was more like highly-charged mineral water than ever. He spoke of his personal adventures; they were tame and flat. Nothing he said could grasp her, hold her. He seemed merely an embodied intellect, a clever, bloodless egoist, babbling eternally about his little self. As she sat opposite him, she wondered how she had managed to stand him so long. She was glad Quintard had come to relieve the monotony. He was the sort of man she would care to have for a friend. * * * * * CHAPTER XXIV. AN UNEXPECTED CONFESSION.