“Oh, well, perhaps they dared—the point is, they didn’t. The ones who had to make their own way were busy making it; and the others, who had got in of right—well, they believe in money. They’d all shrug their shoulders and say, ‘What’s the use of antagonizing such a man?’” “I see,” said Sylvia, fascinated. “Whatever the reason is, they never call me down—not a man of them. And then, as for the women——” Sylvia had not made any sound, but somehow he felt her sudden interest. He said, with signs of agitation, “Please, Miss Castleman, don’t be offended. You asked me to talk about it.” “Go on,” she said. “I’m really most curious. I suppose all the women want to marry you?” “It isn’t only that. They want anything. They just want to be seen with me. Of course, when they start to make love to me—” He paused. “You stop them, I hope,” said Sylvia, modestly. “I do when I know it. But, you see——” He paused again; it was evidently a difficult topic. “Pray don’t mind,” said Sylvia, laughing. “They’re subtle creatures, I know. Do many of them make love to you?” “I know you’re laughing at me, Miss Castleman. But believe me, it’s no joke. If you’d see some of the letters I get!” “Oh, they write you love letters?” “Not only love letters. I don’t mind them—but the letters from women in distress, the most terrible stories you can imagine. Once I was foolish enough—didn’t anybody tell you the scrape I got into?” “No.” “That’s curious—they generally like to tell it. I was weak enough to let one woman get into my house in Cambridge. She had a tragedy to rehearse, and I listened to her, and finally she wanted ten thousand dollars. I didn’t know if her story was true, and I said No, and then she began to scream for help. The servants came running, and she said—well, you can imagine, how I’d insulted her, and all that. I told my man to throw her out, but she said she’d scratch his eyes out, she’d scream from the window, she’d stand on the street outside and denounce me till the police came, she’d give the newspapers the whole story of the way I’d abused her. And so finally I had to give her all the money I happened to have on me.” “Great Heavens!” exclaimed Sylvia, who had not thought of anything so serious as that. “You see how it is. For the most part I’ve escaped that kind of thing, because I was taught. My Great-uncle Douglas, who died recently—he was my guardian, and he taught me all about women when I was very young—not more than ten. He had charge of my upbringing, and he wouldn’t allow a woman in my household.” “Dear me,” said Sylvia, “what a cynic he must have been!” “He died a bachelor,” said the other, “and left me a great deal of money. So you see—that is——” “He’d _had_ to be a cynic!” laughed the girl. And van Tuiver laughed with her—more humanly than she had ever thought possible. She considered for a moment, and then suddenly asked, “Mr. van Tuiver, has it never occurred to you that _I_ might be making love to you?”