“Your point of view is all wrong,” he went on; “you see everything through glasses that do not fit your eyes. You are not fond of talking about yourself, but you have given me several opportunities to gather that. You think you have exhausted life, whereas you have not begun to live. You simply don’t even know what you are thinking about. You know less about the world than any woman of brain and opportunities I ever met in my life, and it is because you have deliberately blinded yourself by false and perverted views.” Hermia’s teeth were clinched and her bosom was heaving. “You may as well finish,” she said, in a voice ominously calm. “Just to mention one point. You have said you do not believe in matrimony—particularly when people love each other. I have had every experience with women that a romantic temperament can devise, so perhaps you will allow me to tell you that I have come to the conclusion that the only satisfactory relationship for a man and woman who love each other is matrimony. The very knowledge that conditions are temporary, acts as a check to love, and one is anxious to be off with one affair for the novelty of the next. Moreover, if human character is worth anything at all, it is worth its highest development. This, an irregular and passing union cannot accomplish; it needs the mutual duties and responsibilities and sacrifices of married life. If ever I really loved a woman I should ask her to marry me. You have got some absurd, romantic notions in your head about the charm and spice of an intrigue. Try it, and you will find it flatter than any matrimony you have ever seen or imagined.” Hermia, with a cry of rage, sprang from her chair and rushed from the room. She dropped her handkerchief in her flight, and Quintard went forward and picked it up. “She is ready to tear me bone from bone,” he thought; “but, if I have destroyed some of her illusions, I shall not mind.” He passed his hand tenderly over the handkerchief, then raised it suddenly to his lips. A wave of color rushed over his dark face, making it almost black. “She was superb in her wrath,” he muttered, unsteadily. He laid the handkerchief on the table and went back to his seat. After a time Hermia returned. She was very pale, and looked rather ashamed of herself. It was characteristic of her that she made no allusion to the past scene. She had a book in her hand. “I came across this in an old book-shop the other day,” she said. “I am fond of prowling about dusty shelves; I suppose I shall end by becoming a bibliomaniac. This is a collection of fragmentary verses which it is said the Crusaders used to sing at night on the battle-field. I thought you might use it.” Quintard looked as pleased as a boy. “It was very good of you to think of me,” he said impulsively, “and I shall make use of it. But tell me what you think of this last yarn.” “It is magnificent,” said Hermia; “I believe you are that rarest object in the history of the world—a poet.”