"Oh no, I haven’t. It’s only that something seems to have been left out of me that—that I don’t demand it as much as many other women; and then—it’s hard to put into words—the conviction has come to me that—that whenever I’m ready for it I shall get it. I’m not ready for it, yet." Her amber eyes rested on me with the utmost truthfulness. "It’s odd; but I’m not. The very fact that I don’t demand it yet, some women, you know, are like that, and I suppose some men, but that very fact shows that it’s wiser not to congest one’s life by tackling too many things at a time. The one thing I’m growing certain of is that it all depends on oneself as to whether or not the windows of heaven are open to pour us out blessings, and that whatever I want, within reason, I shall get in the long run." It was partly this theory of life, and partly a sense of assurance and relief, that led me on to talk of my personal situation. As Drinkwater had done, she dismissed my mental misfortunes as incidental, interesting pathologically, but not morally decisive. As to my return to New York after having actually found my way home I felt obliged to give her some explanation. It was while I was doing this that she asked, as if casually: "Do you like Colonel Stroud?" "No," I said, bluntly. "Do you?" "I can see that he has a sort of fascination ... for other women." She nodded, more thoughtfully, "I don’t trust him." "Neither do I." "I thought not. That’s what makes me wonder—" She hesitated so long that I was compelled to say: "Wonder, what?" "Perhaps I had better not go on." "Please do." "I only will on condition that you authorize me." "I authorize you to say anything you choose." "Well, then, since you _don’t_ trust him, I wonder how you could expose any woman to—to his influence." "Oh, but I don’t. The—the events all took place while I was away, and I’ve no control over them." "No control, perhaps; but there are other things in life besides control." "I know that; but what things, for instance, do you mean?" "Oh, lots of things." She looked about the room as if not attaching much importance to her words. "Love, for one." "But in this case love has to be counted out." "Can you ever count out love? I thought that was the one permanent factor in existence, though the skies were to fall." "It may be a permanent factor, and yet have to remain in abeyance." She laughed. "Nonsense! Who ever heard of love remaining in abeyance? You might as well talk of fire remaining in abeyance when it’s raging, or water when it’s bursting a dam, or any other element in active operation. If I loved any one, no matter how little, I should want to save them from a man like Colonel Stroud." "In spite of the fact that you’d been considered guilty of—" "Oh, what does it matter what any one thinks of so poor a thing as oneself? I mean that oneself _to_ oneself is so very unimportant." "Oh, do you think so?"