"I have n't much I can tell you," he resumed. "My parents died when I was young. They were New England farm-folk and poor. After I was left alone, I started in to get an education without a cent to my name. It took me fifteen years. I graduated from college and then from the law school. I came here to New York and opened an office. That is all." He waved his hand deprecatingly as though ashamed that it was so slight and undramatic a tale. But she leaned towards him with sudden access of interest. "Fifteen years, and you did it all alone! You must have had to fight." "In a way," he answered. "Will you tell me more about it?" she asked eagerly. "It's not very interesting," he laughed. "It was mostly a grind--just a plain, unceasing grind. It was n't very exciting--just getting any old job I could and then studying what time was left." "And growing stronger every day--feeling your increasing power!" "And my hunger, too, sometimes." He tried to make light of it because he didn't wish her to become so serious over it. He did n't like playing the part of hero. "You did n't have enough to eat?" she asked in astonishment. "You should have seen me watch Barstow's cake-box." He told her the story, making it as humorous as he could. But when he had finished, she wasn't laughing. For a moment his impulse was to lay before her the whole story--the bitter climax, the ashen climax, which lately he had thought so beautiful. She had said that nothing in the past would matter--but this was of the future, too. Even if she ought to know, he had no right to force upon her the burden of what was to come. He found now that he had even cut himself off from the privilege of being utterly honest with her. To tell her the whole truth might be to destroy his usefulness to her. She might then scorn his help. He must not allow that. Nothing could justify that. "You are looking very serious," she commented. Her own face had in the meanwhile grown brighter. "It is all from within," he answered, "all from within. And--now presto!--it is gone." Truly the problem did seem to vanish as he allowed himself to become conscious of the picture she made there in the sunshine. With her hair down her back she could have worn short dresses and passed for sixteen. The smooth white forehead, the exquisite velvet skin with the first bloom still upon it, the fragile pink ears were all of unfolding womanhood. "Since my mother died," he said, "you are the first woman who has ever made me serious." "Have you been such a recluse then?" "Not from principle. I have been a sort of office hermit by necessity." "You should not have allowed an office to imprison you," she scolded. "You should have gone out more." "I have--lately." "And has it not done you good?" she challenged, not realizing his narrow application of the statement. "A world of good." "It brightens one up." "Wonderfully." "If we stay too much by ourselves we get selfish, don't we?"