“How inconsistent of you. The other evening you said you should never care whom I saw. Do be consistent.” “Consistency is the last refuge of an idiot. Because I say or do a thing once, am I to be tied to it for the rest of my days?” “But it is quite impossible to keep track of your beliefs.” “Pardon me, I have opinions, but no beliefs. What else did he say?” “You mean Mr. Shelden?” “Yes. What other shoddy nineteenth century-ism did he repeat?” “He said any number of things. He spoke about you.” “Old gossip! What did he find to say about me?” “He asked what you were doing.” “I hope you had the courage to tell him it was none of his business.” “I didn't do anything so rude. I told him you were writing. He seemed deeply impressed and said he had always liked you.” “Humph! He's a startling novelty.” “I thought it very lovely of him to be so sympathetic, for of course he knows. I have an idea papa tells him everything.” “What else, Barbara? Can't you tell me all?” “I told him about your book—and then we discussed books in general. He reads a great deal, so he told me.” “Probably—Thoughts for a Christian on Losing his Hair—for I have observed he is getting bald.” “How mean of you!” “Oh, Barbara, what in heaven's name is going to happen if some one comes between us—some one who has money and all that's worth while?” “You know there is something that no one can have but you.” She leaned forward, holding out her hand for him to take. “I have given you so much love that you must have it all, or I shall keep it for you untouched forever.” And Philip, looking into the face so close to his, saw that she meant the words she spoke. But beyond the words he seemed to see that a cloud could not rest long upon her. She was created for love and brightness, and in his heart he knew that they must be together soon or he would lose her. “What is it, Philip?” she asked after a short silence. “What are you thinking?” “That I am happy,” he answered, smiling. “Only that?” “Could it be more? How glad I am that you are as you are. I would not have you changed.” “It's not because I am so good, is it? For you know I am not.” Before he could answer a door opened and closed in the adjoining room. The sound had an instantaneous effect on Philip. “Here is your father, Barbara; we'll speak of the weather. It is a matter upon which I am disposed to agree with any one—always excepting the pious Anson.” “Why do you pretend to dislike your brother? I think him very nice,—very fine-looking.” “Hate is as essential to certain natures as love—and much more satisfying.” “But you can't hate him. You are far from honest.” “People form such queer notions of me. They are eternally thinking I am not sincere, and yet, Barbara, I mean all I say—while I am saying it. Could integrity carry me to greater lengths?” She looked at him with knitted brows. He was unlike any one she had ever known. “Are you really afraid of him?—of papa?” she asked.