“There are men,” he said firmly, “who know how to love truly and deeply, and could never in their lives care for anybody but the one woman they have picked out. I don’t say all men feel that way; I don’t think they do. But there are a few that are capable of it.” The seats in an observation car are usually near neighbours, and it happened that the brown cuff of a tan sleeve, extended reposefully on the arm of her chair, just touched the back of his hand, which rested on the arm of his. This ethereally light contact continued. She had no apparent cognizance of it, but a vibrant thrill passed through him, and possibly quite a hearty little fire might have been built under him without his perceiving good cause for moving. He shook, gulped, and added: “I am!” “But how could you be sure of that,” she said thoughtfully, “until you tried?” And as he seemed about to answer, perhaps too impulsively, she checked him with a smiling, “At your age!” “You don’t know how old I am. I’m older than you!” “How old are you?” “Twenty-one next March.” “What day?” “The seventh.” “That is singular!” “Why?” “Because,” she began in a low tone and with full recognition of the solemn import of the revelation—“Because my birthday is only one day after yours. I was twenty years old the eighth of last March.” “By George!” The exclamation came from him, husky with awe. There was a fateful silence. “Yes, I was born on the eighth,” she said slowly. “And me on the seventh!” At such a time no man is a purist. “It is strange,” she said. “Strange! I came into the world just one day before you did!” They looked at each other curiously, deeply stirred. Coincidence could not account for these birthdays of theirs, nor chance for their meeting on a train “like this.” Henry Millick Chester was breathless. The mysteries were glimpsed. No doubt was possible—he and the wondrous creature at his side were meant for each other, intended from the beginning of eternity. She dropped her eyes slowly from his, but he was satisfied that she had felt the marvel precisely as he had felt it. “Don’t you think,” she said gently, “that a girl has seen more of the world at twenty than a man?” Mr. Chester well wished to linger upon the subject of birthdays; however, the line of original research suggested by her question was alluring also. “Yes—and no,” he answered with admirable impartiality. “In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. For instance, you take the case of a man that’s in love——” “Well,” interrupted the lady, “I think, for instance, that a girl understands men better at twenty than men do women.” “It may be,” he admitted, nodding. “I like to think about the deeper things like this sometimes.” “So do I. I think they’re interesting,” she said with that perfect sympathy of understanding which he believed she was destined to extend to him always and in all things. “Life itself is interesting. Don’t you think so?”