For a moment the glow remained, then a chill doubt crept in; would he have remained had he known she was to be there? _Where_ did he go after the dinner? As for what they said, it was absurd. And yet--and yet-- He sat, savagely intent upon the waning fire; she turned restlessly again, elbows close together on her knees, face framed in her hands. "You ask me if I am tired," she said. "I am--of the froth of life." His face changed instantly. "What?" he exclaimed, laughing. But she, very young and seriously intent, was now wrestling with the mighty platitudes of youth. First of all she desired to know what meaning life held for humanity. Then she expressed a doubt as to the necessity for human happiness; duty being her discovery as sufficient substitute. But he heard in her childish babble the minor murmur of an undercurrent quickening for the first time; and he listened patiently and answered gravely, touched by her irremediable loneliness. For Nina must remain but a substitute at best; what was wanting must remain wanting; and race and blood must interpret for itself the subtler and unasked questions of an innocence slowly awaking to a wisdom which makes us all less wise. So when she said that she was tired of gaiety, that she would like to study, he said that he would take up anything she chose with her. And when she spoke vaguely of a life devoted to good works--of the wiser charity, of being morally equipped to aid those who required material aid, he was very serious, but ventured to suggest that she dance her first season through as a sort of flesh-mortifying penance preliminary to her spiritual novitiate. "Yes," she admitted thoughtfully; "you are right. Nina would feel dreadfully if I did not go on--or if she imagined I cared so little for it all. But one season is enough to waste. Don't you think so?" "Quite enough," he assured her. "--And--why should I ever marry?" she demanded, lifting her clear, sweet eyes to his. "Why indeed?" he repeated with conviction. "I can see no reason." "I am glad you understand me," she said. "I am not a marrying woman." "Not at all," he assured her. "No, I am not; and Nina--the darling--doesn't understand. Why, what do you suppose!--but _would_ it be a breach of confidence to anybody if I told you?" "I doubt it," he said; "what is it you have to tell me?" "Only--it's very, very silly--only several men--and one nice enough to know better--Sudbury Gray--" "Asked you to marry them?" he finished, nodding his head at the cat. "Yes," she admitted, frankly astonished; "but how did you know?" "Inferred it. Go on." "There is nothing more," she said, without embarrassment. "I told Nina each time; but she confused me by asking for details; and the details were too foolish and too annoying to repeat. . . . I do not wish to marry anybody. I think I made that very plain to--everybody." "Right as usual," he said cheerfully; "you are too intelligent to consider that sort of thing just now."