"It is difficult to advise," he said, "and it is still more difficult to control. In your case I have no right to do either. I am an old man, and you are a very young woman. You are beginning your life,--I am ending mine. Yet, young as you are, you say with apparent sincerity that you do not believe in love. Now I, though I have loved and lost, though I have loved and have been cruelly deceived in love, still believe that if the true, heavenly passion be fully and faithfully experienced, it must prove the chief joy, if not the only one, of life. You think otherwise, and perhaps you correctly express the opinion of the younger generation of men and women. These appear to crowd more emotion and excitement into their lives than ever was attained or attainable in the lives of their forefathers, but they do not, or so it seems to me, secure for themselves as much peace of mind and satisfaction of soul as were the inheritance of bygone folk whom we now call 'old-fashioned.' Still, you may be right in depreciating the power of love--from your point of view. All the same, I should be sorry to see you entering into a loveless marriage." For a moment she was silent, then she suddenly plunged into speech. "Dear Mr. Helmsley, do you really think all the silly sentiment talked and written about love is any good in marriage? We know so much nowadays,--and the disillusion of matrimony is so _very_ complete! One has only to read the divorce cases in the newspapers to see what mistakes people make----" He winced as though he had been stung. "Do you read the divorce cases, Lucy?" he asked. "You--a mere girl like you?" She looked surprised at the regret and pain in his tone. "Why, of course! One _must_ read the papers to keep up with all the things that are going on. And the divorce cases have always such startling headings,--in such big print!--one is obliged to read them--positively obliged!" She laughed carelessly, and settled herself more cosily in her chair. "You nearly always find that it is the people who were desperately in love with each other before marriage who behave disgracefully and are perfectly sick of each other afterwards," she went on. "They wanted perpetual poetry and moonlight, and of course they find they can't have it. Now, I don't want poetry or moonlight,--I hate both! Poetry makes me sleepy, and moonlight gives me neuralgia. I should like a husband who would be a _friend_ to me--a real kind friend!--some one who would be able to take care of me, and be nice to me always--some one much older than myself, who was wise and strong and clever----" "And rich," said Helmsley quietly. "Don't forget that! Very rich!" She glanced at him furtively, conscious of a slight nervous qualm. Then, rapidly reviewing the situation in her shallow brain, she accepted his remark smilingly. "Oh, well, of course!" she said. "It's not pleasant to live without plenty of money."