She was listening; she was no longer longing to fly from the room; she was curious. I knew I had scored. “In any event,” I continued, “you would have married for money. You've been brought up to it, like all these girls of your set. You'd be miserable without luxury. If you had your choice between love without luxury and luxury without love, it'd be as easy to foretell which you'd do as to foretell how a starving poet would choose between a loaf of bread and a volume of poems. You may love love; but you love life--your kind of life--better!” She lowered her head. “It is true,” she said. “It is low and vile, but it is true.” “Your parents need money--” I began. She stopped me with a gesture. “Don't blame them,” she pleaded. “I am more guilty than they.” I was proud of her as she made that confession. “You have the making of a real woman in you,” said I. “I should have wanted you even if you hadn't. But what I now see makes what I thought a folly of mine look more like wisdom.” “I must warn you,” she said, and now she was looking directly at me, “I shall never love you.” “Never is a long time,” replied I. “I'm old enough to be cynical about prophecy.” “I shall never love you,” she repeated. “For many reasons you wouldn't understand. For one you will understand.” “I understand the 'many reasons' you say are beyond me,” said I. “For, dear young lady, under this coarse exterior I assure you there's hidden a rather sharp outlook on human nature--and--well, nerves that respond to the faintest changes in you as do mine can't be altogether without sensitiveness. What's the other reason--_the_ reason? That you think you love some one else?” “Thank you for saying it for me,” she replied. You can't imagine how pleased I was at having earned her gratitude, even in so little a matter. “I have thought of that,” said I. “It is of no consequence.” “But you don't understand,” she pleaded earnestly. “On the contrary, I understand perfectly,” I assured her. “And the reason I am not disturbed is--you are here, you are not with him.” She lowered her head so that I had no view of her face. “You and he do not marry,” I went on, “because you are both poor?” “No,” she replied. “Because he does not care for you?” “No--not that,” she said. “Because you thought he hadn't enough for two?” A long pause, then--very faintly: “No--not that.” “Then it must be because he hasn't as much money as he'd like, and must find a girl who'll bring him--what he _most_ wants.” She was silent. “That is, while he loves you dearly, he loves money more. And he's willing to see you go to another man, be the wife of another man, be--everything to another man.” I laughed. “I'll take my chances against love of that sort.” “You don't understand,” she murmured. “You don't realize--there are many things that mean nothing to you and that mean--oh, so much to people brought up as we are.”