"We are in a hurry because--don't you really know, Louise?--because in the crazy atmosphere of this house, one loses the sense of--of proportion--of differences." "Aren't you rather--Emersonian, mamma?" "Do you think so, my dear? Matt's queer notions infect everybody; I don't blame _you_, particularly; and the simple life he makes people lead--by leading it himself, more than anything else--makes you think that you could keep on living just as simply if you wished, everywhere." "It's very sweet--it's so restful," sighed the girl. "It makes you sick of dinners and ashamed of dances." "But you must go back to them; you must go back to the world you belong to; and you'd better not carry any queer habits back with you." "You _are_ rather sphinx-like, mamma! Such habits, for instance, as?" "As Mr. Maxwell." The girl's face changed; her mother had touched the quick. She went on, looking steadily at her daughter, "You know he wouldn't do, there." "No; he wouldn't," said Louise, promptly; so mournfully, though, that her mother's heart relented. "I've seen that you've become interested in him, Louise; that your fancy is excited; he stimulates your curiosity. I don't wonder at it! He _is_ very interesting. He makes you feel his power more than any other young man I've met. He charms your imagination even when he shocks your taste." "Yes; all that," said Louise, desolately. "But he does shock your taste?" "Sometimes--not always." "Often enough, though, to make the difference that I'm afraid you'll lose the sense of. Louise, I should be very sorry if I thought you were at all--in love with that young man!" It seemed a question; Louise let her head droop, and answered with another. "How should I know? He hasn't asked me." This vexed her mother. "Don't be trivial, don't be childish, my dear. You don't need to be asked, though I'm exceedingly glad he _hasn't_ asked you, for now you can get away with a good conscience." "I'm not sure yet that I want to get away," said the girl, dreamily. "Yes, you are, my dear!" her mother retorted. "You know it wouldn't do at all. It isn't a question of his poverty; your father has money enough: it's a question of his social quality, and of all those little nothings that make up the whole of happiness in marriage. He would be different enough, being merely a man; but being a man born and reared in as different a world from yours as if it were another planet--I want you to think over all the girls you know--all the _people_ you know--and see how many of them have married out of their own set, their own circle--we might almost say, their own family. There isn't one!" "I've not said I wished to marry him, mamma." "No. But I wish you to realize just what it would be." "It would be something rather distinguished, if his dreams came true," Louise suggested.