It was a novel and suggestive situation. And yet--only a dream. No matter how far he wandered, how real seemed the vision, it always ended there--it was but a dream, a waking dream. He had at last no part in her life; he would never have. And yet again, why not? The world was large; he felt its largeness as they rushed from center to center, saw the teeming crowds here, the far-stretching farms and dwellings there. The world was large, and they were at best but a man and a woman. If she loved him what did it matter? It meant only a prolonged and indefinite stay abroad in the land he best knew; all its pleasures, its comforts, his--and hers. If only she loved him! He lived over every minute detail of their short companionship, from the hour he saw her, the little madonna, until he kissed her hand and promised unnecessarily that he would never break her heart. A strange comfort followed this realization. Come what might, humiliation, disgrace, separation, she loved him! His fixed gaze as he dreamed had its effect; she looked up from her pictures and back to him. A rush of emotions swept away his mood; he rose almost angrily; it was a question between him and his Savior only. God had made the world and named its holiest passion love, and if they loved blindly, foolishly, fatally, God, not he, was to blame. He went and sat by her. "You puzzle me sometimes," she said. "You are animated and bright and--well, charming often--and then you seem to go back into your shell and hide. I am afraid you are not happy, Mr. Morgan." "Not happy? Hardly. But then no bachelor can be quite happy," he added, returning her smile. "I should think otherwise," she answered. "When I look about among my married friends I sometimes wonder why men ever marry. They seem to surrender so much for so little. I am afraid if I were a bachelor there isn't a woman living whom I would marry--not if she had the wealth of Vanderbilt." Edward laughed outright. "If you were a bachelor," he answered, "you would not have such thoughts." "I don't see why," she said trying to frown. "Because you are not a bachelor." "Then," she said, mockingly, "I suppose I never will--since I can't be a bachelor." "The mystery to me," said Edward, "is why women ever marry." "Because they love," answered the girl. "There is no mystery about that." "But they take on themselves so much care, anxiety, suffering." "Love can endure that." "And how often it means--death!" "And that, too, love does not consider. It would not hesitate if it knew in advance." "You speak for yourself?" "Yes, indeed. If I loved, I am afraid I would love blindly, recklessly. It is the way of Montjoy women--and they say I am all Montjoy." "Would you follow barefooted and in rags from city to city behind a man, drunken and besotted, to sing upon the streets for a crust and sleep under a hedge, his chances your chances, and you with no claim upon him save that you loved him once? I have seen it." She shook her head.