We talked no more of Beechman or of any personalities related to this story. When the bridge party broke up and a supper was served on deck, she and Beechman sat together. And I gathered from the sounds coming from their direction that he was making progress. My spirits gradually oozed away and I sat glumly pretending to listen while Mrs. Raphael talked to me. Usually she interested me because she talked what she knew and knew things worth while. But that night I heard scarcely a word she said. When the party, one by one, began to go below, Mrs. Kirkwood joined me and found an opportunity to say, aside: “Won’t you talk with Mr. Beechman--and tell me your honest opinion? You know I can’t afford to make another mistake. And I’m in earnest.” I stood silent, smoking and staring out toward the dim Connecticut shore. “It wouldn’t be unfair to him,” she urged. “You’re not especially his friend. I can’t ask anyone else, and I believe in your judgment.” “If I advised you, I’d be taking a heavy responsibility,” said I. “I’m not that kind--you know I’m not,” replied she. “I don’t ask advice, to have some one to blame if things go wrong. Of course, if there’s a reason why you can’t very well help me-- Maybe you already know something against him?--something you’ve no right to tell?” “Nothing,” said I, emphatically. “And I don’t believe there is anything against him.” Then, on an impulse of fairness and to wipe out the suspicion of Beechman I had unwittingly created, I said: “Really, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t size him up and give you my opinion. I’ll do my best.” She thanked me with a fine lighting up of the eyes. And the warm friendly pressure of her hand lingered after she had long been below and was no doubt asleep. * * * * * What was my reason for hesitating? You have guessed it, but you think I do not intend to admit. You are deceived there. I admit frankly. I felt unable to advise her because I found that I was in love with her, myself. Yes, I was in love, and for the first time in my life. The latest time of falling in love is always the first. As we become older and more experienced, better acquainted with the world, with ourselves, with what we want and do not want--in a word, as we _grow_, the meaning of love grows. And each time we love, we see, as we look back over the previous times, that what we thought was love was in fact simply educational. So, when I say I had never loved until I loved Mary Kirkwood, I am speaking a truth which is worth thinking about. I had reached the age, the stage of physical and mental development, at which a man’s capacities are at their largest--at which I could give love and could appreciate love that was given to me. And I, who could not ask or hope love from her, gave her all the love I had to give. Gave because I could not help giving. Who, seeing the best, can help wanting it?