"The trouble lies in this intoxicating perfume we call liberty. We women sniff it afar, and it makes us restless and excitable. It’s a heady odour. Only a level mind can enjoy it with discretion. Otherwise, it incites to excess. That’s all. We’re simply not yet used to liberty. And _that_ is what concerns me about Stephanie—with her youth, and her intelligence, her undoubted gifts and—her possible inheritance from a fascinating rascal of a father. "Well, that is the girl; there are the conditions; this is the problem.... And now I must be going." She held out her smartly gloved hand; retained his for a moment: "You won’t sail before Stephanie’s Easter vacation?" "No; I’ll probably sail about May first." "In that case, I’ll come on from Bayport, and you won’t need to find a companion for Stephanie. After you sail, she’ll come to me, anyway." "For hospital training," he nodded. "For two years of it. It’s her choice." "Yes, I know. She prefers it to college." Miss Quest said very seriously: "For a girl like Stephanie, it will be an excellent thing. It will give her a certain steadiness, a foundation in life, to have a profession on which she may rely in case of adversity. To care for and to be responsible for others develops character. She already seems interested." "She prefers it to graduating from Vassar." Miss Quest nodded, then looking him directly in the eyes: "I want to say one thing. May I?" "Certainly." "Then, above all, be patient with Stephanie. Will you?" "Of course!" he replied, surprised. "I am looking rather far into the future," continued Miss Quest. "You will change vastly in two years. She will, too. Cherish the nice friendship between you. A man’s besetting sin is impatience of women. Try to avoid it. Be patient, even when you differ with her. She’s going to be a handful—I may as well be frank. I can see that—see it plainly. She’s going to be a handful for me—and you must always try to keep her affections. "It’s the only way to influence any woman. I know my sex. You’re a typical man, entirely dependent on logic and reason—or think you are. All men think they are. But logic and reason are of no use in dealing with us unless you have our affections, too. Good-bye. I do like you. I’ll come again at Easter." Alone in the quiet house, with his memories for companions, the young fellow tried to face the future;—tried to learn to endure the staggering blow which his father’s death had dealt him,—strove resolutely to shake off the stunned indifference, the apathy through which he seemed to see the world as through a fog. Gradually, as the black winter months passed, and as he took up his work again and pegged away at it, the inevitable necessity for distraction developed, until at last the deadly stillness of the house became unendurable, driving him out once more into the world of living men.