“It is true, nevertheless. Perhaps it is my own fault, but I have never found any love that was wholly free from self-indulgence or self-interest.” “If you rate love so low, why did you make your heroine crave it?” “One can desire love even when one cannot feel it.” “Does one desire what one despises?” “To scorn money does not imply a preference for poverty.” “The scorn of money is as genuine as your incapacity to love, Miss Walton.” “You do not believe me?” “A person incapable of love does not crave it. It is only a loving nature which cares for love.” “But if one cannot love, how can one believe in it?” “The unlighted torch does not believe in fire.” “But some substances are incombustible.” “The sun melts anything.” “The sun is trans-terrestrial.” “So is love.” You looked at me in silence for a moment, and then asked, “Is love so much to you?” “Love is the only thing worth striving for in this life,” I replied. “And if one fails to win it?” “One cannot fail, Miss Walton.” “Why not?” “Because the best love is in one’s own heart and depends only on one’s self.” “And if one has loved,” you responded hurriedly, with a mistiness in your eyes which proved how deeply you were feeling, “if one gives everything—only to find the object base—if”—You stopped speaking and looked away. “One still has the love, Miss Walton; for it is that which is given, and not that which is received, that is worth the having.” I faltered in my emotion, and then, almost unconscious of what I said, went on: “For many years I have loved,—a love from the first impossible and hopeless. Yet it is the one happiness of my present life, and rather than”—I recovered control of myself, and became silent as I heard Mrs. Blodgett coming along the veranda. You leaned forward, saying softly, “Thank you for the confidence.” Then, as Mrs. Blodgett joined us, you said, “I envy you your happiness, Dr. Hartzmann.” “What happiness is that?” asked Mrs. Blodgett, glancing from one to the other curiously. “Dr. Hartzmann,” you explained calmly, without a trace of the emotion that had moved you a moment before, “has been proving to me that all happiness is subjective, and as I have never been able to rise to such a height I am very envious of him.” “I don’t know what you mean,” remarked Mrs. Blodgett. “But if the doctor wants to know what real happiness is, he had better marry some nice girl and have his own home instead of living in a boarding-house.” You laughed, and added, “Now our happiness becomes objective. Perhaps it is the best, after all, Dr. Hartzmann.” “Do _you_ think so, Miss Walton?” I asked, unable to prevent an emphasis in the question. You rose, saying, “I must dress for dinner.” But in the window you turned, and answered, “I have always thought it was, but there are evident exceptions, Dr. Hartzmann, and after what you have told me I think you are one of them.” “And not yourself?” I could not help asking.