"But there’s no satisfaction in opening doors if one can’t go in." "Ah, there’s the immortal difference between a man and a woman! Most men want a marvel, patent and notorious. They want to come to the end of the rainbow and find the pot of gold; that’s all, whether that means a kiss or a marriage. Women enjoy every step of the journey. Men think of nothing but fulfilment, women of achievement. Men care only for the black art of the Indian fakir who makes a grain of wheat grow to full maturity in a few minutes. Women appreciate the wonder of the natural development of that same little seed in the warm bosom of the earth, with its slow evolution of sprout and stalk and leaf and blossom—the glory of every step on the way!" "But, can’t you see that progress in affection needn’t be a limited journey to a finite end, even the end of the flower, but, no matter how fast one travels, if one is really in love, the goal is always infinitely distant? There are enough things to be understood and enjoyed." "Oh, I’m sure enough that I’ll never get enough of you, and never know enough about you!" "That’s almost too true to be funny. You’ll never know even who I am, I’m afraid. Think what a risk you run, my dear!" "Oh, I know who you are well enough. You’re the son of Casanova and Little Dorrit." He grew reflective. "Isn’t it strange," he said, "that you, with all your wonderful intuitions, shouldn’t be able, somehow, to solve that riddle? Do you think I am Madam Grant’s son? Sometimes that seems to be the inevitable conclusion." "I can’t quite think you are, Francis. Everything you have told me about her has brought her very near to me, somehow, and I feel as if I knew her, but you don’t affect me in the same way. I think you’re a changeling, myself! It is strange that I can’t quite ’get’ you now, though, not nearly as well as I used to. My power seems to have waned ever since—" "Since what?" "Since that first kiss! You see, I’ve exchanged that elusive power for something tangible." She put him away with a gesture. "No, not now! I want to be serious! And oh, here’s what I found in my father’s scrap-book. It seemed to have been cut from a very old paper. Somehow it seems to point to her. I want to know what you think about it." She had copied it out and read it to him: