"I wish it were true. Women like you--you know what I mean; there are no women like you, of course--come into my life too seldom. I dread the empty futility of to-morrow. As an Indian agent, I must expect to live without companionship with such as you. I have a premonition that Jennie is going to leave me--as she ought." "You will be very lonely then; what will you do?" "Work harder; do more good, and so cheat myself into forgetfulness that time is flying." "You are bitter to-night." "Why shouldn't I be when you are going away? It wouldn't be decent of me to be gay." "Your methods of flattery are always effective. At one moment you discuss the weightiest matters with me--which argues I have brains--and then you grow gloomy over my going and would seem to mean that I am charming, which I don't think is quite true." "If I weren't a poor devil of an army officer I'd convince you of my sincerity by asking you not to go away at all." "That _would_ be convincing," she said, laughingly. "Please don't do it!" His tone became suddenly serious. "You are right, I can't ask you to share a life like mine. It is too uncertain. I may be ordered back to my regiment next winter, and then nothing remains but garrison duty. I think I will then resign. But I am unfitted for business, or for any money-getting, and so I've decided that as an honorable man I must not imperil the happiness of a woman. I claim to be a person of taste, and the girl I admired would have other chances in life. I can't afford to say to her, 'Give up all your comfort and security and come with me to the frontier.' She would be foolish to listen--no woman of the stamp I have in mind could do it." They were nearing "the parsonage" gate, and he ended in a low voice: "Don't you think I am right?" "The theory is that nothing really counts in a woman's life but love," she replied, enigmatically. "Yes, but theory aside--" "Well, then, I can conceive of a girl--a very _young_ girl--leaving wealth and friends, and even her art, for the man she loved, but--" He waited a moment as a culprit listens to his judge. "But then--but in case--" "If the girl were grown up and loved luxurious living, and shared an enthusiasm--say for art--then--" She broke off and said, wearily, "Then she might palter and measure values and weigh chances, and take account of the future and end by not marrying at all." They had reached the gate and he spoke with perceivable effort: "I've no right to ask it, of course, but if you take pity on my loneliness at any time and write to me, your letters will be more welcome than it is seemly in me to say, and I'll promise not to bore you with further details of my 'Injines.' Will you be kind to me?" "I will be glad to write," she replied, but in her voice was something he did not understand. As they entered the house Elsie said: "Captain Maynard, Captain Curtis is going out to-morrow morning to arrest that crazy Indian. Do you think he ought to go alone?"