“Nobody. But I thought you were at first—with Mrs. What’s-her-name, who should have been here. But you can’t be, or not badly, or you would not have talked ‘shop’ so enthusiastically.” “That’s no proof. I don’t think I could ever love a woman as much as I do my work. I can’t believe that, if ever I had to choose between my work and a woman, I should choose the woman.” “Touch wood, old chap, touch wood; though even that powerful magic won’t make you safe. Just wait till ‘she’ comes along, and then, Lord preserve you! You—I can see you just mad for a woman.” “You’re wrong. No woman I’ve ever seen has made me forget myself.” “No woman—yet. That doesn’t insure the future.” “No; but I haven’t any fears.” “That’s what I used to say, once upon a time.” “And——?” “I’ve grown older and wiser. But that’s a story too stupid and too common to be worth telling. You—you’re capable of sacrificing everything for a woman, for _the_ woman; and, after all, it’s the only thing worth making sacrifices for. Venus is the only goddess worth worshipers.” “You romantic old cynic!” “Cynic! I wonder how that ever came to be a term of reproach? A cynic’s simply a man who has learned that impulses should be restrained by reason. Most men find that wisdom when their impulses have ceased to be temptations. Good Lord! George, I came up here to lounge, and you mislead me into talking art and philosophy. The least compensation you can offer me is—lunch. I’m hungry.” Mortimer went off after luncheon, and Maddison was once more free to study the problem that faced him. Mortimer’s belief that he could ever be induced to throw all else aside for the love of a woman had amused him and instilled into him a spirit of dare-deviltry, of intense desire to make hot love to Marian, for whom his longing grew keener and keener—just to prove that he could play with fire without burning his fingers. Wonder at her not coming to him was now being supplanted by anxiety lest some accident should have befallen her. If he walked down to Kennington he would not be there until after three o’clock, not too early an hour for a call in so unfashionable a neighborhood. He walked slowly, surprised at the keenness of the anxiety he was now enduring. Had Marian, already, after two brief meetings, become so much to him that the fear of any hurt having come to her filled him with rage? How clearly he conjured up his last sight of her, as she stood back to the fire, whose light glinted through her hair. How graceful and gracious she had looked. Yes, he feared love unfulfilled, not love unrequited. The gate creaked dismally as he pushed it open. He walked quickly up the gravel path, looking sharply up at the parlor window, through which in the dusk he could see the firelight dancing on the ceiling. “Mrs. Squire was not in. Would he wait?” said the little maid. Curiously the chance that she might not be in had not occurred to him, and he drew his breath sharply at the news.