"Oh no--I was only tired," answers Lauraine. "How charming your evening was. I rarely hear such music as at your house." "Yes; Signor Alfieri was delightful," agrees Lady Etwynde. "Did you like his new song, by the way?" "Do you mean the English one?" asks Lauraine, feeling an odd little thrill at her heart as she remembers the passionate melody which had so moved and stirred her. "It was perfectly exquisite." "I wrote him the words," says Lady Etwynde calmly. "_You!_" exclaims Lauraine, in surprise. "Not that I believe in such sentiments," continues her friend, smiling. "For the matter of that, I suppose no poet is quite idiot enough to believe what he writes, unless they are things like the 'Boudoir Ballads.' But it sounds well to talk of love being all in all, though no one believes it is--or, indeed, wants it to be. Moonlight and kisses are all very well, but we want some more substantial food in life than that." "You don't believe in love, then?" questions Lauraine. "Not much. I have outlived that faith. Most women do. At sixteen, you know, we believe in all men; at twenty in _one_; at thirty in none. I believe in none. I have given myself up to the pleasures of the mind, and they suit me much better. I am a disciple of culture." "I know," smiles Lauraine. "But you might find a kindred spirit even there. What then?" "Well, I have not much fear of that," says Lady Etwynde gravely. "You see, the men I meet and associate with are more or less hobby-riders. They each have a special subject, and devote themselves to it--almost too much so, in fact. But I suppose it is difficult to draw the line. A fair and adequate amount of culture is delightful, but it leads people on to wild lengths sometimes. I am wondering in my own mind how far the desire for its acquisition will lead me. Still, one must have some object in life--especially if one is a woman and not married; and I shall never be that." "Why is it so improbable?" asks Lauraine. "Why? Oh, because I don't care for such a prosaic termination to my liberty for one thing, and I don't believe in men for another. And society--society as it is now--has really very little interest for me. It bores me, in point of fact. All the same, my dear, the men I meet and whose society I cultivate are not at all the sort of men to inspire romantic sentiments--do you think so?" "Candidly, I do not," smiles Lauraine.