"Patient girl!" he said, patting her dark head with his big sun-browned hand--"As good as gold and quieter than a mouse! Well! You may go now. I've read the letter and there's no answer. Nothing for me to write, or for you to post!" She lifted her brilliant eyes to his--what glorious eyes they were! He would not have been man had he not been conscious of their amorous fire. He patted her head again in quite a paternal way. "Nothing for me to write or for you to post"--he repeated, abstractedly--"and how satisfactory that is!" "Then you are pleased?" she said. "Pleased? My dear, there is nothing to be pleased or displeased about! The ugly old man whom you found so 'very kind' tells me to take care of myself--which I always do. Also--to marry and settle down--which I always don't!" She stood upright, turning her head away from the touch of his hand. She had never looked more attractive than at that moment,--she wore the white gown in which he had before admired her, and a cluster of roses which were pinned to her bodice gave rich contrast to the soft tone of her smooth, suntanned skin, and swayed lightly with the unquiet heaving of the beautiful bosom which might have served a sculptor as a perfect model. A faint, quivering smile was on her lips. "You always don't? That sounds very droll! You will be unlike every man in the world, then,--they all marry!" "Oh, do they? You know all about it? Wise Manella!" And he looked at her, smiling. Her passionate eyes, full of glowing ardour, met his,--a flashing fire seemed to leap from them into his own soul, and for the moment he almost lost his self-possession. "Wise Manella!" he repeated, his voice shaking a little, while he fought with the insidious temptation which beset him,--the temptation to draw her into his arms and take his fill of the love she was so ready to give--"They always marry? No dear, they do NOT! Many of them avoid marriage--" he paused, then continued--"and do you know why?" She shook her head. "Because it is the end of romance! Because it rings down the curtain on a beautiful Play! The music ceases--the lights are put out--the audience goes home,--and the actors take off their fascinating costumes, wash away their paint and powder and sit down to supper--possibly fried steak and onions and a pot of beer. The fried steak and onions--also the beer--make a very good ordinary 'marriage.'" In this flippant talk he gained the mastery over himself he had feared to lose--and laughed heartily as he saw Manella's expression of utter bewilderment. "I do not understand!" she said, plaintively--"What is steak and onions?--how do they make a marriage? You say such strange things!" He laughed again, thoroughly amused. "Yes, don't I!" he rejoined--"But not half such strange things as I could say if I were so inclined! I'm a queer fellow!" He touched her hair gently, putting back a stray curl that had fallen across her forehead.