In July Stephanie asked Harry Belter and his wife to spend a week at Runner’s Rest. They arrived, the husband a vastly modified edition of his former boisterous, careless, assertive self—a subdued young man now, who haunted his wife with edifying assiduity, moving when she moved, sitting when she sat, tagging faithfully at her dainty heels as though a common mind originated their every inclination. Philip Grayson, who had been asked with them, told Helen that the Belters had bored him horribly on the journey up. "You know," he said, "Harry Belter used to be at least amusing, and Marie Cliff was certainly a sparkling companion. But they seem to have no conversation except for each other, no interests outside of each other, and if a fellow ventures to make a remark they either don’t listen or they politely make an effort to notice him." "You can’t blame them," smiled Helen, "after three years of estrangement, and in love with each other all the while." She was seated under a tree on the edge of the woods, half way up the western slope behind Runner’s Rest. Grayson lay among the ferns at her feet. The day had turned hot, but up there in the transparent green shadows of the woods a slight breeze was stirring. "Estranged all that time, and yet in love," repeated Helen, sentimentally, spreading out a fern frond on her knees and smoothing it. "Do you wonder that they lose no time together?" Grayson, sprawling on his stomach, his handsome face framed in both hands, emitted a scornful laugh. "You’re very tender-hearted, theoretically," he said. The girl looked up, smiled: "Theoretically?" she inquired. "What do you mean, Phil?" "What I say. Theoretically you are tender-hearted, sympathetic, susceptible. But practically——" His short laugh was ironical. "Practically—what?" demanded the girl, flushing. "Practically, you’re just practical, Helen. You’re nice to everybody, impartially; you go about your sculpture with the cheerful certainty of genius; nothing ever disconcerts you; you are always the cool, freshly gowned, charmingly poised embodiment of everything lovely and desirable—wonderful to look at, engaging and winsome to talk to—and—and all marble inside!" "Phil! You unpleasant wretch!" "Therefore," he said deliberately, "when you sentimentalize over the Belters and how they loved each other madly for several years after having bounced each other, your enthusiasm leaves me incredulous." "The trouble with every man is this," she said; "any girl who doesn’t fall in love with him is heartless—all marble inside—merely because she doesn’t flop when he expects it. He gives that girl no credit for warm humanity unless she lavishes it on him. If she doesn’t, she’s an iceberg and he sticks that label on her for life." Grayson sat up among the ferns and gathered his legs under him: "It isn’t because you don’t care for me," he said, "but I tell you, Helen, you’re too complete in yourself to fall in love."