"Pardon me, but I seldom find the necessity. Life in itself occupies all my spare time; I mean all the time I can spare from things that are necessary to keep in life." She looked at him again with frankly puzzled, half-amused eyes. "How funny that sounds. I don't understand it a bit, but I daresay I shall when I have really been idle for two or three weeks. Tom says it will do me good before I start regular work. I am going to teach in a Board school in November." "That seems a pity." "Why? I have to earn my own living, remember!" "Pardon me for saying that that seems to me a greater pity still." The puzzled, amused look grew more pronounced. "And that sounds still funnier. Can't you see that some of us must work; there are so many of us nowadays. Besides, I like work; uncle used to say that was lucky, because I had to. You see I am absolutely alone in the world." "And that is the greatest pity of all." His voice, soft, kind, courteous, carried them beyond the lightness of ordinary conversation in a moment, and Marjory, recognising the fact, felt none of her usually quick resentment at the intrusion of a stranger into her inner life; for she was not of those who parade their possession of a soul, perhaps because she took it as a matter of course. "I suppose it is, in a way," she assented; "but I have been accustomed to the position all my life, and somehow I never regret it." "That seems to me rather unnatural in a girl." "It is very lucky," she retorted. "What would become of me if I were afraid?" "You would probably lead a far happier life." "Why?" They were standing opposite each other, looking into each other's faces, and the beauty of his, the unconsciousness of hers, held them both captive. "Because in all probability you would marry." There was a silence for a moment, but Paul Macleod, no mean judge of character, partly because of the complexity of his own, had rightly gauged the measure of what he had to deal with. What many girls might have deemed an impertinence Marjory passed by as a mere truism. "I have often thought of that myself," she replied quietly; "but I think you are mistaken." It was his turn now to put that terse, unconditional "Why?" "I am not likely to marry; as uncle used to say, I have not purchasing power equal to my requirements." "Meaning, of course, that your ideal is too high. I should have fancied so. You are very young, Miss Carmichael. And I am old; besides, ten years knocking about in Indian cantonments disposes effectually of the theory of twin souls. It is very beautiful, no doubt; but I fancy mine must have died in the measles, or some other infantile ailment. It did not survive to riper years, at any rate. But here comes Mrs. Cameron, so I shall escape scathing this time. I generally do."