"Why is it that we think a man despicable who marries for money, and yet it is what we expect a woman to do? I've asked Miss Marlenspuyk about Mr. Stone, and she knows all about him, as she does about everybody else. She says he has three or four or five thousand dollars a year besides his pay--and yet he wants to marry me for my money! It will just serve him right if I marry him for his. He's at the Brooklyn Navy-Yard for a few months more, and then his shore duty will be up; so that if we are married, he'll be ordered to sea soon, and I shall be free from him for three years. When I write like that I don't know whether I have a greater contempt for him or for myself. _Mais il faut vivre, n'est-ce pas?_ And what am I to live on next month? I can't be a matron in Milwaukee, can I? The world owes me a living, after all, and I've simply got to collect the debt from a man. And how I hate myself for doing it! "He sent me flowers this morning--a big bunch of violets--and of course he will come in this afternoon to get thanked. If I am engaged before dinner I'll put in a postscript to tell you--so that you can get your wedding-present ready!" As she wrote this last sentence she gave a hard little laugh. Then she heard a brisk rattle from the telephone-box near the door. She dropped her pen and went across the room and put the receiver to her ear. "Yes--I'm Mrs. Randolph," she said. "Yes--I'm at home. Yes. Have Mr. Stone shown up to my parlor." Then she replaced the receiver and stood for a moment in thought. She went back to the desk and closed her portfolio, with the unfinished letter inside. She changed the position of the bowl of violets and brought it into the full light. She glanced about the room to see if it was in order; and she crossed to the fireplace and looked at herself in the mirror above. "I do wish I had slept better last night," she said to herself. "I always show it so round the eyes." She crossed swiftly to the door which opened into the next room. "Jemima!" she called. "Yes, Miss Evelyn," responded a voice from within. "Mr. Stone is coming up--and my hair is all wrong. I simply must do it over. You tell him I'll be here in a minute." "Yes, Miss Evelyn," was the answer. "And after Mr. Stone comes you get the water ready for the tea," said Mrs. Randolph, as she went into the bedroom. "Be sure that you have a fresh lemon. The last time Mr. Stone was here his slice was all dried up--and men don't like that sort of thing." A minute or two after she had disappeared there was a rap at the door, and Jemima came from the bedroom and admitted Mr. Stone. She told him that Mrs. Randolph would see him at once, and then she went back to her mistress, after giving him a curiously inquisitive look. Mr. Stone had the walk of a sailor, but he carried himself like a soldier. His eyes were blue and penetrating; his ashen mustache curled over a firm mouth; his clean-shaven chin was square and resolute.