“The big ways are those which indicate character, aren’t they? While the little ones only make for habits. Men differ as to their habits, but in character they’re all cut on the same pattern—two or three patterns at most.” “But can’t you say the same of women?” “Very likely; only I don’t have to marry a woman.” Since she had become personal, I ventured to do the same. “Oh, so it’s a question of marriage!” “What other question is there when a girl like me is twenty-three? One has to decide that tiresome bit of business before one can tackle anything else.” I grew bolder. “Decide as to whom to marry—or whether or not to marry at all?” “Suppose I said as to whether or not to marry at all?” “You mean that you’d like advice?” “I’d listen to advice—if you’ve any to give.” I gathered all my strength together for the most tremendous effort of my life. “Then, I should say this: That there are men in the world different from any you’ve ever seen yet. Wait!” She laughed—an intelligent laugh, full of music, mirth, and comprehension. “Do you know, that reminds me of something awfully strange that happened to me a few months ago? Some one else said just those words to me—or, rather, wrote them down.” I pulled my chair so that her eyes rested on me more directly. “How?” “Oh, I can’t tell you. I said I never would—so I mustn’t. I should love to—though I never shall.” “Was it—interesting?” “Thrilling! But there! I’m not going to tell you. I shouldn’t have mentioned it if what you say hadn’t been so oddly like—” But Coningsby came back into the room to ask if Miss Barry wouldn’t join his wife in the nursery to see little Rufus while he was awake. In the mean time he and I would retire to his own snuggery and talk business. While I followed his account of the hotel he was building sufficiently to get his ideas and to know what he expected of me, I was saying to myself: “She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know me at all. It never occurs to her as a possibility that the man who wrote those words is the one she is now asked to meet at dinner. How am I ever to get the nerve to let her know?” When I found the opportunity I put the question, “Have your wife and Miss Barry any idea about me?” “About you? You mean about—” “The Down and Out.” “Lord, no! What would be the good of that?” “The only good would be that—that I shouldn’t be sailing under false colors.” “False colors be hanged! We’ve all got a right to the privacy of our private lives. You don’t go nosing into any one else’s soul; why should any one else go nosing into yours? Why, if I were to tell my wife all I could tell her about myself I should be ashamed to come home.” I knew this argument, and yet when I came to apply it to my attitude toward Regina Barry I was not satisfied. _CHAPTER XI_ A few days later I was surprised to receive a note from Annette van Elstine. It ran: