To the Martin they went, and he ordered an enormous supper--one of those incredible meals for which he was famous. They dispatched a quart of champagne before the supper began to come, he drinking at least two thirds of it. He drank as much while he was eating--and called for a third bottle when the coffee was served. He had eaten half a dozen big oysters, a whole guinea hen, a whole portion of salad, another of Boniface cheese, with innumerable crackers. "If I could eat as you do!" sighed Ursula enviously. "Yet it's only one of your accomplishments." "I'm not eating much nowadays," said he gloomily. "I'm losing my appetite." And he lit a long black cigar and swallowed half a large glass of the champagne. "Nothing tastes good--not even champagne." "There _is_ something wrong with you," said Ursula. "Did you ask me out for confidences, or for advice--or for both?" "None of them," replied he. "Only for company. I knew I'd not be able to sleep for hours, and I wanted to put off the time when I'd be alone." "I wish I had as much influence with you as you have with me," said Ursula, by way of preparation for confidences. "Influence? Don't I do whatever you say?" She laughed. "Nobody has influence over you," she said. "Not even myself," replied he morosely. "Well--that talking-to you gave me has had its effect," proceeded Mrs. Fitzhugh. "It set me to thinking. There are other things besides love--man and woman love. I've decided to--to behave myself and give poor Clayton a chance to rest." She smiled, a little maliciously. "He's had a horrible fright. But it's over now. What a fine thing it is for a woman to have a sensible brother!" Norman grunted, took another liberal draught of the champagne. "If I had a mind like yours!" pursued Ursula. "Now, you simply couldn't make a fool of yourself." He looked at her sharply. He felt as if she had somehow got wind of his eccentric doings. "I've always resented your rather contemptuous attitude toward women," she went on. "But you are right--really you are. We're none of us worth the excitement men make about us." "It isn't the woman who makes a fool of the man," said Norman. "It's the man who makes a fool of himself. A match can cause a terrific explosion if it's in the right place--but not if it isn't." She nodded. "That's it. We're simply matches--and most of us of the poor sputtering kind that burns with a bad odor and goes out right away. A very inferior quality of matches." "Yes," repeated Norman, "it's the man who does the whole business." A mocking smile curled her lips. "I knew you weren't in love with Josephine." He stared gloomily at his cigar. "But you're going to marry her?" "I'm in love with her," he said angrily. "And I'm going to marry her." She eyed him shrewdly. "Fred--are you in love with some one else?" He did not answer immediately. When he did it was with a "No" that seemed the more emphatic for the delay.