"I speak only of such things as I have read—" I began. "More books!" she sighed. "—words of men, much wiser than I—poets and philosophers, written—" "When they were old and gray-headed," Charmian broke in; "when they were quite incapable of judging the matter—though many a grave philosopher loved; now didn't he?" "To be sure," said I, rather hipped, "Dionysius Lambienus, I think, says somewhere that a woman with a big mouth is infinitely sweeter in the kissing—and—" "Do you suppose he read that in a book?" she inquired, glancing at me sideways. "Why, as to that," I answered, "a philosopher may love, but not for the mere sake of loving." "For whose sake then, I wonder?" "A man who esteems trifles for their own sake is a trifler, but one who values them, rather, for the deductions that may be drawn from them—he is a philosopher." Charmian rose, and stood looking down at me very strangely. "So!" said she, throwing back her head, "so, throned in lofty might, superior Mr. Smith thinks Love a trifle, does he?" "My name is Vibart, as I think you know," said I, stung by her look or her tone, or both. "Yes," she answered, seeming to look down at me from an immeasurable attitude, "but I prefer to know him, just now, as Superior Mr. Smith." "As you will," said I, and rose also; but, even then, though she had to look up to me, I had the same inward conviction that her eyes were regarding me from a great height; wherefore I attempted—quite unsuccessfully—to light my pipe. And after I had struck flint and steel vainly, perhaps a dozen times, Charmian took the box from me, and, igniting the tinder, held it for me while I lighted my tobacco. "Thank you!" said I, as she returned the box, and then I saw that she was smiling. "Talking of Charmian Brown—" I began. "But we are not." "Then suppose you begin?" "Do you really wish to hear about that—humble person?" "Very much!" "Then you must know, in the first place, that she is old, sir, dreadfully old!" "But," said I, "she really cannot be more than twenty-three—or four at the most." "She is just twenty-one!" returned Charmian, rather hastily, I thought. "Quite a child!" "No, indeed—it is experience that ages one—and by experience she is quite—two hundred!" "The wonder is that she still lives." "Indeed it is!" "And, being of such a ripe age, it is probable that she, at any rate, has—been in love." "Scores of times!" "Oh!" said I, puffing very hard at my pipe "Or fancied so," said Charmian. "That," I replied, "that is a very different thing!" "Do you think so?" "Well—isn't it?" "Perhaps." "Very well, then, continue, I beg." "Now, this woman," Charmian went on, beginning to curl the tress of hair again, "hating the world about her with its shams, its hypocrisy, and cruelty, ran away from it all, one day, with a villain." "And why with a villain?" "Because he was a villain!" "That," said I, turning to look at her, "that I do not understand!"