She nodded toward Drinkwater and Miss Blair. "They don’t let me in. In spite of all I try to do for them, they’re only polite to me. They’ll accept this kind of thing; but I’m as far outside their confidence—outside their hearts—as a bird in a cage, as I’ve called myself, is outside a flock of nest-builders." "And assuming that that is so—though I do not assume it—how do you account for it? "Oh, easily enough! I’m not the real thing. I never was—not at the Settlement—not now—not anywhere or at any time." "But how would you describe the real thing?" "I can’t describe it. All I know is that I’m not it. I’m not working for them, but for myself." "For yourself—how?" "To fill in an empty life. When you’ve no real life you seek an artificial one. As every one rejects the artificial, you get rejected. That’s all." "What would you call a real life—for yourself?" The fierceness with which she had been speaking became intensified, even when tempered with her diffident half-smile. "A life in which there was something I was absolutely obliged to do. I begin to wonder if parents know how much of the zest of living they’re taking away from their children by leaving them, as we say, well provided for. When there’s nothing within reason you can’t have and nothing within reason you can’t do—well, then, you’re out of the running." "Is that the way you look at yourself—as out of the running?" "That’s the way I _am_." "And is there no means of getting into the running?" "There might be if I wasn’t such a coward." "If you weren’t such a coward what would you do?" "Oh, there are things. You’ve—you’ve found them. I would do like you." "And do you know what I’m doing?" "I can guess." "And you guess—what?" "It’s only a guess—of course." "But what is it?" She rose with a weary gesture. "What’s the good of talking about it? A knight in disguise remains in disguise till he chooses to throw off his incognito." "And when he has thrown it off—what does he become then?" "He may become something else—but he’s—he’s none the less—a knight." We stood looking at each other, in one of those impulses of mutual frankness that are not without danger. "And if there was a knight who—who couldn’t throw off his incognito?" She shrugged her shoulders. "Then I suppose he’d always be a knight in disguise—something like Lohengrin." "And what would Elsa think of that?" Seeing the implication in this indiscreet question even before she did, I felt myself flush hotly. I admired the more, therefore, the ease with which she carried the difficult moment off. Moving a few steps toward Drinkwater and Miss Blair, who were shutting up the tea-basket, she threw over her shoulder: "If there was an Elsa I suppose she’d make up her mind when the time came." She was still moving forward when I overtook her to say: "I wish I could speak plainly." She stopped to glance up at me. "And can’t you?"