"Must all my pretty castles come tumbling down, then?" she said, in a tone of regret. "Can this be the sum of life, this round of dull days? This dreaming which you say is so dangerous--I have always believed it to be ambition--has been the only solace of my life. I have longed so intensely to mingle with more intelligent people than we have here, that I cannot believe it was wrong; I almost believe you are dangerous, and I will leave you." She walked half way down the aisle, as if intending to go out, but as Dorris did not move, and continued looking at the floor, she came back again. "That is what you ought to do--go away and never come into my presence again," he said, raising his eyes and looking into her face. "That was a good resolve; you should carry it out." Annie Benton looked puzzled as she asked why. "Because every honest sentiment I ever expressed seemed wrong, and against the established order. The friendship of the people does not suit me--neither does their love; and, miserable beggar though I am to feel dissatisfied with that which The King offers, I am not content with it. I wander aimlessly about, seeking--I know not what. A more insignificant man than I it would be difficult to find; but in a world of opulence, this mendicant, this Prince Myself, finds nothing that satisfies him. A beggar asking to be chooser, I reject those things that men prize, and set my heart upon that which is cheap but impossible. Sent into the world to long for an impossibility, I have fulfilled my mission so faithfully that I sometimes wonder that I am not rewarded for it. _You_ must not follow a path that ends in such a place." He pointed out of the window, and the girl thought he referred to The Locks; certainly it was not a cheerful prospect. "For you, who are satisfied with everything around you, and who greet every new day for its fresh pleasures, I am a dangerous companion, for my discontent is infectious. And though I warn you to go away, you are a suspicion of that which I have sought so long. Your music has lulled me into the only peace I have ever known; but principle--which has always guided me into that which was distasteful--demands that I advise you to keep out of my company, though I cannot help hoping that you will not heed the advice." "I regret that what you say--that I am contented with everything around me--is not true," the girl replied, "but though I am not, and wish I were, I do not repine as you do. You are the gloomiest man I ever knew." "Not at all gloomy," he answered. "Listen to my laugh. I will laugh at myself." Surely such a good-natured laugh was never heard before; and it was contagious, too, for the girl joined him in it, finally, though neither of them knew what they were laughing about. "I seldom afflict my friends with melancholy," he said, "for I am usually gay. Gay! I am the gayest man in the world; but the organ caused me to forget. It's all over now; let's laugh some more."