He smiled. "Bored you! Is it possible to be bored at twenty-one?" "I think every one, young or old, is bored more or less nowadays," she said. "Boredom is a kind of microbe in the air. Most society functions are deadly dull. And where's the fun of being presented at Court? If a woman wears a pretty gown, all the other women try to tread on it and tear it off her back if they can. And the Royal people only speak to their own special 'set,' and not always the best-looking or best-mannered set either." Helmsley looked amused. "Well, it's what is called an _entree_ into the world,"--he replied. "For my own part, I have never been 'presented,' and never intend to be. I see too much of Royalty privately, in the dens of finance." "Yes--all the kings and princes wanting to borrow money," she said quickly and flippantly. "And you must despise the lot. _You_ are a real 'King,' bigger than any crowned head, because you can do just as you like, and you are not the servant of Governments or peoples. I am sure you must be the happiest man in the world!" She plucked off a rose from a flowering rose-tree near her, and began to wrench out its petals with a quick, nervous movement. Helmsley watched her with a vague sense of annoyance. "I am no more happy," he said suddenly, "than that rose you are picking to pieces, though it has never done you any harm." She started, and flushed,--then laughed. "Oh, the poor little rose!" she exclaimed--"I'm sorry! I've had so many roses to-day, that I don't think about them. I suppose it's wrong." "It's not wrong," he answered quietly; "it's merely the fault of those who give you more roses than you know how to appreciate." She looked at him inquiringly, but could not fathom his expression. "Still," he went on, "I would not have your life deprived of so much as one rose. And there is a very special rose that does not grow in earthly gardens, which I should like you to find and wear on your heart, Lucy,--I hope I shall see you in the happy possession of it before I die,--I mean the rose of love." She lifted her head, and her eyes shone coldly. "Dear Mr. Helmsley," she said, "I don't believe in love!" A flash of amazement, almost of anger, illumined his worn features. "You don't believe in love!" he echoed. "O child, what _do_ you believe in, then?" The passion of his tone moved her to a surprised smile. "Well, I believe in being happy while you can," she replied tranquilly. "And love isn't happiness. All my girl and men friends who are what they call 'in love' seem to be thoroughly miserable. Many of them get perfectly ill with jealousy, and they never seem to know whether what they call their 'love' will last from one day to another. I shouldn't care to live at such a high tension of nerves. My own mother and father married 'for love,' so I am always told,--and I'm sure a more quarrelsome couple never existed. I believe in friendship more than love."