Mariana repressed a shudder. "I have no doubt that toads are natural enough in their way," she returned, "but I don't like the way of toads." Anthony met her serious protest lightly. "You are a beautiful subject for morbid psychology," he said. "Why, toads are eminently respectable creatures, and if we regard them without prejudice, we will discover that, as a point of justice, they have an equal right with ourselves to the possession of this planet. Only, right is not might, you know." "But I love beautiful things," protested Mariana. She looked at him wistfully, like a child desiring approbation. There was an amber light in her eyes. He smiled upon her. "So do I," he made answer; "but to me each one of those nice little specimens is a special revelation of beauty." The girl broke her bread daintily. "You misunderstand me," she said, with flattering earnestness and a deprecatory inflection in her voice. Her head drooped sideways on its slender throat. There was a virginal illusiveness about her that tinged with seriousness the lightness of her words. "Surely you love art," she said. "Oh, I like painting, if that is what you mean," he answered, carelessly, though her image in his eyes was relieved against a sudden warmth. "That is, I like Raphael and Murillo and a few of the modern French fellows. As for music, I don't know one note from another. The only air I ever caught was 'In the Fragrant Summer-time,' and that was an accident. I thought it was 'Maryland.'" Mariana did not smile. She shrank from him, and he felt as if he had struck her. "It isn't worth your thinking of," he said, "nor am I." Mariana protested with her restless hands. "Oh, but I can't help thinking of it," she answered. "It is dreadful. Why, such things are a part of my religion!" He returned her startled gaze with one of amusement. "I might supply you with an alphabetical dictionary of my peculiar vices. An unabridged edition would serve for a criminal catalogue as well. A--Acrimony, Adhesiveness, Atheism, Aggressiveness, Aggravation, Ambition, Artfulness--" "Oh, stop!" cried Mariana. "You bewilder me." He leaned back in his chair and fixed his intent gaze upon her. His eyes were so deeply set as to be almost indistinguishable, but in the spell of lamplight she saw that the pupils differed in color, one having a hazel cast, while the other was of a decided gray. "Why, I thought you displayed an interest in the subject!" he rejoined. "You lack the genius of patience." "Patience," returned Mariana, with a swift change of manner, "is only lack of vitality. I haven't an atom of it." A shade of the nervous irritability, which appeared from apparently no provocation, was in his voice as he answered: