They went to a quiet restaurant in the Loop which Clive had discovered, a foreign-looking place where people sat for hours over one drink: a place to talk. It was almost empty at this hour. A table across the room was occupied by an elderly Swede or Dane, who sat moodily sipping a liqueur. “What,” Phyllis demanded, fingering the stem of her glass, “_shall_ I do—I mean, with my life. Tell me, Felix!” “If I tell you, will you do it?” he demanded. She hesitated for a moment. “Yes—I will!” “Marry!” “Oh—I might have known you would say that.” She sipped her cocktail disappointedly. “I could have got that advice from St. Paul!” “I suppose you prefer to take Walter Pater’s advice,” he said laughingly. “What is that?” “Burn always with a hard, gem-like flame! But, no—St. Paul is right: it is better to marry!” “Don’t tease me, Felix. I’m in earnest.” “So am I. I’ve told you what to do.” “Marry—yes. But why?” “You’ll find out why, my dear. ‘Open your mouth and shut your eyes—’” “You’re making fun of me.” “Not a bit.” “Marry, you say?” “Yes.” “And I’m not to ask why?” “No.” “Then—whom?” “A man.” “Any man?” “Any man you happen to like.” “But I don’t happen to like many men.” “Marry one of those fortunate few.” “I suppose you mean Clive?” “He’ll do.” “No, he won’t.” “Why not?” “He doesn’t believe in marriage. And, Felix, one of the two people must believe in a marriage, for it to _be_ a marriage!” “Then marry—Herbert Bond.” Herbert Bond was a staid young business man with whom Phyllis had flirted outrageously during her last quarrel with Clive. “You said—any man I happened to _like_,” she protested. “What kind of man _do_ you happen to like, then?” “Clive’s kind!” “I suspected as much,” he said. “Well, then, marry one of Clive’s kind—but without Clive’s fatal weakness.” “Not believing in marriage—is that his fatal weakness?” “Not being able to believe in anything!—in marriage—in love—” “Or in me,” said Phyllis sadly. Felix was silent. “Can any one—any one of Clive’s kind—believe in me?” she asked. “Yes,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “Are you sure?” she demanded, leaning across the table. “Quite sure,” he said quietly, meeting her gaze. She looked down. “There’s only one other man—of Clive’s kind—that I can think of,” she said. “And he’s—out of my reach.” “Then you must look around for some others,” Felix said, smiling. “Are there others?” she asked incredulously. “Of course. It’s only youth and ignorance that makes you imagine they are scarce. You don’t find them by the dozens in little country towns, of course; but you are in Chicago, now. They are a type familiar in all great cities. How long have you been here? A few months! And because you’ve only found two, so far—” She sighed. “You think there may be a third?” “Oh, yes.” “And you think I’ll find him?” “If you look.” “And will he like _me_, do you think?” “I shouldn’t be surprised if he did, rather!”