"I am beginning to understand why you don't paint or write or do things, although you know such a lot about them," observed Katharine, half closing her eyes and making a picture of the square of sunlit garden as she saw it framed in the woodwork of the summer-house door. Paul smiled. It was very pleasant to be told by this child of Nature that he knew "such a lot about things." "Tell me why," was all he said, however. "I think it is because it puts you in a position to criticise every one else. It makes you so superior, in a sort of way. Oh, bother! I never can explain things. But don't you see, if you were a painter yourself, you couldn't say that there was only one painter living, as you do now. Could you?" "Perhaps I could," said Paul, and laughed gently at her look of surprise. "Of course I know you are only laughing at me," she said in an injured tone. "You never think I am serious about anything." "My dear Miss Katharine," he assured her, "on the contrary, I think you are most terribly serious about everything. I have never had so much serious conversation since I was nineteen myself. You will have to grow older, before you learn to be young and frivolous." "But _you_ are not frivolous," she protested. "You know you are not. You only say that to tease me." "I only say it to convince you. It is not my fault if you do not understand, is it?" "I do understand, I am certain I do. At least"--she paused suddenly, and looked at him with one of her long critical looks. "Perhaps you are right, and I don't understand you a bit. How queer! I don't think I like the feel of it." She ended with a little gesture of distaste. "I shouldn't bother about it, if I were you," said Paul calmly. "You will understand better when you are older--and younger. Meanwhile, it is very pleasant, don't you think?" She was leaning forward with her hands folded under her chin, and did not answer him. "What made you choose to be a barrister?" she asked suddenly. He shrugged his shoulders. "Merely because it presented greater opportunities for idleness than any other profession, I suppose." Katharine swung herself round on her low stool, and looked at him incredulously. "But don't you ever want to _do_ anything,--you with all your brains and your talents?" she cried impatiently. "Surely you must have some ambition?" "Oh, no," replied Paul, arranging the cushions at the back of his head and sinking down on them again. "I hope I shall always be comfortable, that's all; and I have enough money for that, thank the Lord!" "Supposing you had been poor?" "Don't suppose it," rejoined Paul; and her puzzled features relaxed into a smile. "I can't think why you have a face like that, then," she said reflectively. "What's the matter with my face? Does it suggest possibilities? To think that I might have been a minor poet all these years, without knowing it!"