"But," he went on, "we were talking of the change in you. If you've changed so much in, thirty days, or, say, in sixty-seven days--you've been here that long, I believe--think of your whole life. The broader your mind and your life become, the less certain you'll be what sort of person to-morrow will find you. It seems to me--I know that, for myself, I'm determined to keep the future clear. I'll never tie myself to the past." "But there are some things one MUST anchor fast to." Pauline was looking as if Scarborough were trying to turn her adrift in an open boat on a lonely sea. "There are--friends. You wouldn't desert your friends, would you?" "I couldn't help it if they insisted on deserting me. I'd keep them if their way was mine. If it wasn't--they'd give me up." "But if you were--were--married?" Scarborough became intensely self-conscious. "Well--I don't know--that is----" He paused, went on: "I shouldn't marry until I was sure--her way and mine were the same." "The right sort of woman makes her husband's way hers," said she. "Does she? I don't know much about women. But it has always seemed to me that the kind of woman I'd admire would be one who had her own ideals and ideas of life--and that--if--if she liked me, it would be because we suited each other. You wouldn't want to be--like those princesses that are brought up without any beliefs of any sort so that they can accept the beliefs of the kingdom of the man they happen to marry?" Pauline laughed. "I couldn't, even if I wished," she said. "I should say not!" he echoed, as if the idea in connection with such an indelibly distinct young woman were preposterous. "But you have such a queer way of expressing yourself. At first I thought you were talking of upsetting everything." "I? Mercy, no. I've no idea of upsetting anything. I'm only hoping I can help straighten a few things that have been tumbled over or turned upside down." Gradually, as they walked and talked, her own affairs--Dumont's and hers--retreated to the background and she gave Scarborough her whole attention. Even in those days--he was then twenty-three--his personality usually dominated whomever he was with. It was not his size or appearance of strength; it was not any compulsion of manner; it was not even what he said or the way he said it. All of these--and his voice contributed; but the real secret of his power was that subtile magnetic something which we try to fix--and fail--when we say "charm."