“He has a certain--a certain--lack of vigor. It’s a thing I’ve observed in all professional men, except those of the first rank, those who are really men of action.” She nodded. “I was waiting for that,” said she. “It’s the thing that has made me hesitate.” She laughed outright. “What a conceited speech! But I’m exposing myself fully to you.” “Why not?” said I. “I am picking him to pieces as if I thought myself perfection. As a matter of fact, I know he’d fly from me if he saw me as I am.” She reflected, laughed quietly. “But he never would know me as I am. An unconventional woman--if she’s sensible--only shows enough of her variation from the pattern to make herself interesting--never enough to be alarming.” “You are unconventional?” “You didn’t suspect it?” “No. You smoke cigarettes--but that has ceased to be unconventional.” “I rather thought you had a favorable opinion of my intelligence,” said she. “So I have,” said I. “To be perfectly frank, you seemed to me to have as good a mind as your brother.” “That is flattering,” said she, immensely pleased, and with reason. “Well, if you thought so favorably of my intelligence, how could you believe me conventional?” “I see,” said I. “No one who thinks can be conventional.” “Conventionality,” said she, “was invented to save some people the trouble of thinking and to prevent others from being outrageous through trying to think when they’ve nothing to think with.” “That is worth remembering and repeating,” laughed I. “Personally, I’m deeply grateful for conventionality. You see, I came up from the bottom, and I find it satisfactory to be able to refer to the rules in all the things I knew nothing about.” “My brother says the most remarkable thing about you--and your wife-- Do you mind my telling you?” “Go on,” said I. “He says most people who come up are alternately hopeless barbarians and hopelessly conventional, but that you took the right course. You learned to be conventional--learned the rules--before you ventured to try to make personal variations in them.” “I’m slow to risk variations,” said I. “Most of the efforts in that direction are--eccentric. And I detest eccentricity as much as I like originality.” “If Mr. Beechman were only a little less conventional!” sighed she. “I’m afraid he’d be rather--” She hesitated. “Tiresome?” I ventured to suggest. “Tiresome,” she assented. “But--there would be the children. Do you think he’d try to interfere with me there?” “You’ll never know that until you’ve married him,” said I. “It’s a pity he has an occupation that would keep him round the house most of the time,” said she. “That’s a trial to a woman. She’s always being interrupted when she wishes to be free.” “You mustn’t expect too much,” said I. “I think the children will be _your_ children.” She did not reply in words. But a sudden strengthening of her expression made me feel that I was getting a glimpse of her father.