‘Our party, next week, seems heartless, doesn’t it—sort of like giving a ball while the people next door are having a funeral? I wanted to give it up, but Uncle Howard looked so hurt when I proposed it that I didn’t say anything more about it.’ ‘No, certainly not. That would be foolish and useless. Because some people have to be unhappy is no reason why all should be.’ ‘I suppose not,’ she agreed slowly; and then she added, ‘The world used to be so much pleasanter to live in before I knew there was any misery in it—I wish I didn’t have to know!’ ‘Miss Marcia, I told you the other day that it was a relief sometimes to see people who are thoroughly, irresponsibly happy; who dance over the pit without knowing it’s there. A man who has been in the pit, who knows all its horrors—who feels as if he reeked with them—likes occasionally to see some one who doesn’t even know of its existence. And yet in the end do you think he can thoroughly respect such blindness? Don’t you feel that you are happier in a worthier sense when you look at life with your eyes open; when you honestly take the bad along with the good?’ She sat silent for a few minutes, apparently considering his words. Presently he added— ‘As for your party, I think you may dance with a free conscience. You’ve done what you could to help matters on, and you’ll do a great deal more in the future.’ ‘I’m afraid that my conscience didn’t have much to do with wanting to give up the ball,’ she acknowledged, with a slightly guilty laugh. ‘It’s simply that I can’t bear to meet people, and feel that all the time they’re talking to me they’re calling me in their minds “the Wheat Princess.”’ ‘That, I suppose you know, is very silly. It’s the price you have to pay, and I haven’t much sympathy to offer. However, you need not let it bother you; for, as a matter of fact, there will not be many men here, who would not be wheat kings themselves if they had the chance—even knowing beforehand all the suffering it was going to bring to this trouble-ridden country. And now, suppose we don’t talk about wheat any more. You’ve thought about it a good deal too much.’ ‘You’re not very optimistic,’ she said. ‘Oh, well, I’m not blind. It takes an Italian to be optimistic in this country.’ ‘Do you like the Italians, or don’t you?’ she asked. ‘Sometimes you seem to, and sometimes you act as if you despised them.’ ‘Yes, certainly I like them; I was born in Italy.’ ‘But you’re an American,’ she said quickly. He laughed at her tone. ‘You surely want to be an American,’ she insisted. ‘As Henry James says, Miss Marcia, one’s country, like one’s grandmother, is antecedent to choice.’ She studied the fire for some time without speaking, and Sybert, leaning back lazily, studied her. Her next observation surprised him. ‘You said the other day, Mr. Sybert, that every man lived for some idea, and I’ve been wondering what yours was.’ A curious expression flashed over his face.