"He’s making a great name for himself just now," said Marriott. "He’s bound to win. He’ll go to Congress, or be elected governor or something, sure." She longed for his opinion and yet just then she felt it impossible to ask it. "He’s a--" "What?" She could not forbear to ask, but she put the question with a little note of challenge that made Marriott turn his head. "One of those young civilians." "One of what young civilians?" "That Emerson writes about." "He’s not so very young, is he?" Elizabeth tried to smile. "The young civilians are often very old; I have known them to be octogenarians." He looked at her and was suddenly struck by her pallor and the drawn expression about her eyes. She had met his gaze, and he realized instantly that he had made some mistake. They were standing there in the drawing-room, the canvas-covered floor was littered with rose-leaves. It was the moment when the guests had begun to feel the first traces of weariness, when the laughter had begun to lose its spirit and the talk its spontaneity, when the older people were beginning to say good night, leaving the younger behind to shower the bride and groom with rice and confetti. Perplexed, excited, self-conscious after Eades’s declaration, feeling a little fear and some secret pride, suddenly Elizabeth saw the old, good-humored, friendly expression fade from Marriott’s eyes, and there came a new look, one she had never seen before, an expression of sudden, illuminative intelligence, followed by a shade of pain and regret, perhaps a little reproach. "Where does Emerson say--that?" she asked. "You look it up and see," he said presently. She looked at him steadily, though it was with a great effort, tried to smile, and the smile made her utterly sick at heart. "I--must look up father," she said, "it’s time--" She left him abruptly, and he stood there, the smile gone from his face, his hands plunged deep in his pockets. A moment he bit his lips, then he turned and dashed up the stairs. "I’m a fool," he said to himself. Elizabeth had thought of love, she had imagined its coming to her in some poetic way, but this--somehow, this was not poetic. She recalled distinctly every word Eades had spoken, but even more vividly she recalled Marriott’s glance. It meant that he thought she loved Eades! It had all become irrevocable in a moment; she could not, of course, undertake to explain; it was all ridiculous, too ridiculous for anything but tears.