“Yes,” she said, “that is possible. I could love, but it would be better that I shouldn’t. Better for him. If I loved it would be no pretty bill-and-coo. It would be love. I should give much, but demand much. I do not think it would be comfortable to be loved by me. If I loved it would be the one great concern of my life. I should have room for nothing else. I have studied myself. And if he did not love me as I loved him I should make him unhappy, for I do not believe men like to be bothered by too much love. I should make him hate me. I should be no sweet domestic animal to greet him with a kiss, and fetch him his slippers, and sit by placidly while he read his paper. Men like comfort and coddling. There would be no comfort with me. I should be jealous—jealous even of the food that gave him pleasure. What man wants such a love! What happiness can come from it? Would you want to be loved that way?” She turned abruptly to Jim. “I do not believe one can love too much. I don’t believe you know what love is, Miss Ducharme. If love is what I believe, it is not fierce, not a fire that burns beyond control. I think it is gentle; I think love forgives; I think real love manifests itself not by clawing and scratching its object, but by spending itself to procure his happiness—or her happiness. I believe the true love of a man for his wife, or of a woman for her husband, has much in it of the love of father or mother for their child. I do not think love threatens; it shelters. No, Miss Ducharme, the thing you have been talking about is not love at all. I don’t know what it is, but love it is not.” She looked at him wide-eyed, startled, curious. “When you love,” he said, “you will see that I am right.” “I should like to believe you, Mr. Ashe,” she said. “It would be sweet—sweet. But you are wrong. How could you know? Have you loved?” “No.” Mrs. Stickney spoke, her old eyes twinkling. “It don’t seem scarcely possible,” she said, “but I’ve been in love. It was some number of years ago, but I hain’t forgot all about it yet. Shouldn’t be s’prised if there was times when I remembered it right well. So I’m speakin’ from experience. When I was in love ’twa’n’t exactly like either one of them things you’ve been describin’. I’ll go so far’s to say that both of you’ll know consid’able more about it after you’ve ketched it.” Jim felt a sense of relief. There had been a strain; the moments that had passed were tense moments. Possibly Marie, too, was relieved. At any rate, she stood up, and as she walked toward the door she spoke icily: “Bear in mind, please, Mr. Ashe, that I and my affairs are not to be discussed, nor have you a right to interfere in whatever happens.” “Miss Ducharme, I have that right. If I see a man ill-treat a dog, I have the right to protect that dog—more than that, it is my duty. How much more is it a man’s right and duty to interfere in behalf of a woman who is in danger!” “Duty!” exclaimed Miss Ducharme.