"You might marry for--love," suggests Lauraine. "My dear," murmurs her friend, with delicate scorn and faint reproach, "at thirty years of age?" "That is not old for a beautiful woman," says Lauraine, with unconscious but most sincere flattery. "And it is our natures that make us old, I think, more than actual years." Lady Etwynde smiles her pensive, moonlit smile. "I shall never love," she says, calmly. "Men are so uninteresting; and, besides, people always seem so unhappy when they are married." Lauraine colours hotly, and her eyes turn seaward. "Yes," she says in a low voice. "The people we know and meet--in Society. But to them marriage has been chiefly a matter of arrangement, or convenience. There is not often any _heart_ in it." "And if there were it would not last," answers Lady Etwynde. "Sentiment is lovely in theory; you cannot reduce it to practice, though." "I think it might be possible," says Lauraine, dreamily. "Even fashion and the world cannot kill feeling. If people would only be more true to themselves--less artificial, less exaggerated--they would be much happier." "Doubtless; but far less comfortable! My dear Lauraine, Society suits its age, and always has suited it. It is no use wishing things could be altered." "I suppose not," sighs Lauraine. "You are rather romantic," continues Lady Etwynde, as they turn back from the great bold headland and move towards the narrow path that leads into the woods of Falcon's Chase. "It is an unfortunate quality for either man or woman. They will never see persons or things as they really are. They will love, and invest the person loved with every attribute they would _wish_ them to possess, and which, alas! they never do. They throw a halo of imagination round every head that is dear to them. Their existence is a series of shocks and disappointments. They see their fairy weapons broken time after time in the world's rough warfare. They stand and look at life with wistful, feverish eyes, praying, 'Be as I fancy you,' and it never will. They break their hearts over the sufferings and sorrows they see, and intensify their own by too keen a sympathy. They are never understood, especially by those they love the best. They are like the poets who sing to deaf ears and go through life misunderstood, even if not scorned, and not ridiculed." "What makes you think I am romantic?" "A thousand things. Your love of nature and solitude, your artistic fancies, your emotional capacity, your extreme sensitiveness. I have a weakness for studying character. When I first saw you I said to myself: 'She is not happy.' 'She is full of idealities.' 'She cares nothing for the world.' 'She will not be content only to--live.' Am I right, or not?" "Can one ever know oneself quite?" murmurs Lauraine, colouring softly. "Do you really think I am not--happy?"