"Why shouldn't you? It's natural. And you know you can't go on always just putting it off. It leaves your life empty. To-night, when I asked you if you had had dinner, you said, 'Such a meal as a man eats alone.' That betrays the emptiness." "I suppose it does. But I don't know many girls. I don't know any girl very well, except you, and you wouldn't have me." "No, I wouldn't," she answered frankly. "I like you too well. But you know other girls, and you could get to know more if you wanted to. There's Edith Duncan, for instance." "Edith is a fine girl. The Duncans are wonderful people. I owe to them almost everything. But as for marrying Edith--" "Why not?" "I don't know. I never thought of it that way. She's a fine girl." "None better," said Bert, with decision. "Dave, I'm not much on orthodox religion, as you know, but that girl's got something on me. She has a voice that would make her famous on the stage, but she uses it all the time, as she says, 'in the service of the King!' I think she's narrow on that point, but I know she's sincere. Edith has had a great sorrow, and it makes her nobility stand out, pure and wonderful, like a white gem in a black setting. It seems to be the law that one must rub shoulders with sorrow before he really begins to live. And any afternoon you can find her down in the children's ward, singing with that wonderful voice to the little sick sufferers." "I know about her sorrow," said Dave, as though confessing a profound secret. "She told me about her little brother being killed." It sprang to Bert's lips to say, "Oh, what's the use?" but she checked herself. They were at the door of her boarding-house. As he helped her to the sidewalk Dave stood for a moment with her hand in his. He had long liked Bert Morrison, and to-night he was powerfully drawn toward her. He knew--what she would have most strenuously denied--that her masculinity was a sham. Her defiance of convention--rambling like a fellow bachelor into his apartments--her occasional profanity and occasional cigarette--these were but the cloak from which her own deep womanhood was forever peering forth. He felt impelled to kiss her. He wondered if she would be angry; if such a familiarity would obstruct their growing friendship. He felt sure she would not be angry, but she would probably think him foolish. And man cannot endure being thought foolish by woman. "Oh, I almost forgot," she said as they parted, as though she really had forgotten. "I was at a reception to-day when a beautiful woman asked for you. Asked me if I had ever heard of Mr. David Elden. "'What, Dave Elden, the millionaire?' I said. 'Everybody knows him. He's the beau of the town, or could be, if he wanted to.' Oh, I gave you a good name, Dave." "Thanks, Bert. That was decent. Who was she?" "She said her name was Irene Hardy." CHAPTER TWELVE