Susan smiled, gravely shaking her head: "Cold, dear; stone cold. I'm pretty mercenary these days, but I'm not quite so mercenary as that. Now that I've discovered I can make a living, I'm not nearly so interested in it; hardly at all. It's the stupid side of life, always; I shouldn't like it to make much difference to me now, when it comes to real decisions. I did want a nice home for Sister, though. As for me, any old room most anywhere will do. It will, Ambo; don't laugh; I'm in earnest. But what's your second guess?" she added quickly. "You've some writing you want to do--a book, maybe? You're afraid the review will interfere?" "Ah, now you're a tiny bit warmer! I am afraid it will interfere, but in a much deeper way than that; interfere with _me_." "I don't quite follow that, do I!" "Good gracious, no--since you ask. It's simple enough, though--and pretty vague. Only it feels important--here." For an instant her hand just touched her breast. "I hate so to be roped in, Ambo, have things staked out for me--spiritually, I mean. Mr. Sampson's a darling; I love him! But he's a great believer in ropes and stakes and fences--even barbed wire. I'm beginning to see that the whole idea of his review is a scheme for mending political and moral and social fences, stopping up gaps in them made by irresponsible idealists--anarchists, revolutionary socialists--people like that. People like me, really!--There! Now you do look surprised." I was; but I smiled. "You've turned _Red_, Susan? How long since? Overnight?" "Not red," answered Susan, with bravely forced gayety; "pinkish, say! I haven't fixed on my special shade till I'm sure it becomes me." "It's certain to do that, dear." She bobbed me a little bow across the cloth, much in the old happy style--alas, not quite. "But I never did like washed-out colors," she threw in for good measure. "You _are_ irresponsible, then! Suppose Phil could hear you--or Jimmy. Jimmy'd say your Greenwich Village friends were corrupting you. Perhaps they are?" "Perhaps they are," echoed Susan, "but I think not. I'm afraid it goes farther back, Ambo. It's left-over Birch Street; that's what it is. So much of me's that. All of me, I sometimes believe." "Not quite. You'll never escape Hillhouse, either, Susan. You've had both." "Yes, I've had both," she echoed again, almost on a sigh, pushing her untasted _demi-tasse_ from her. Suddenly her elbows were planted on the cloth before her, her face--shadowed and too finely drawn--dropped between her hands, her eyes sought and held mine. They dizzied me, her eyes....