"Why, the only sort of men who'd attract you have come out of their own world of their own accord to play about for a while in our world. They can go back; that is the law. But they can't take us with them." "They'd be ashamed, you mean?" "Perhaps not. A man is likely enough to try. But alas! for us, if we're silly enough to go. I tell you, Valerie, that their world is full of mothers and sisters and feminine relatives and friends who could no more endure us than they would permit us to endure them. It takes courage for a man to ask us to go into that world with him; it takes more for us to do it. And our courage is vain. We stand no chance. It means a rupture of all his relations; and a drifting--not into our world, not into his, but into a horrible midway void, peopled by derelicts.... I know, dear, believe me. And I say that to fall in love is no good, no use, for us. We've been spoiled for what we might once have found satisfactory. We are people without a class, you and I." Valerie laughed: "That gives us the more liberty, doesn't it?" "It's up to us, dear. We are our own law, social and spiritual. If we live inside it we are not going to be any too happy. If we live without it--I don't know. Sometimes I wonder whether some of the pretty girls you and I see at Rector's--" "I've wondered, too.... They _look_ happy--some of them." "I suppose they are--for a while.... But the worst of it is that it never lasts." "I suppose not." Valerie pondered, grave, velvet-eyed, idly twisting a grass stem. "After all," she said, "perhaps a brief happiness--with love--is worth the consequences." "Many women risk it.... I wonder how many men, if social conditions were reversed, would risk it? Not many, Valerie." They remained silent; Rita lay in the shadow of the maples, eyes closed; Valerie plaited her grass stems with absent-minded industry. "I never yet wished to marry a man," she observed, presently. Rita made no response. "Because," continued the girl with quaint precision, "I never yet wanted anything that was not offered freely; even friendship. I think--I don't know--but I think--if any man offered me love--and I found that I could respond--I _think_ that, if I took it, I'd be contented with love--and ask nothing further--wish nothing else--unless he wanted it, too." Rita opened her eyes. Valerie, plaiting her grass very deftly, smiled to herself. "I don't know much about love, Rita; but I believe it is supreme contentment. And if it is--what is the use of asking for more than contents one?" "It's safer." "Oh--I know that.... I've read enough newspapers and novels and real literature to know that. Incidentally the Scriptures treat of it.... But, after all, love is love. You can't make it more than it is by law and custom; you can't make it less; you can't summon it; you can't dismiss it.... And I believe that I'd be inclined to take it, however offered, if it were really love." "That is unmoral, dear," said Rita, smiling.