“I don’t agree with you,” said Roger. “Did you ever happen to know a man who had left woman out altogether?” inquired Richmond. “No--but I’ve seen many and many a life--an artist’s life--wrecked by women--by marriage.” Richmond took advantage of Roger’s averted face to indulge in a smile of satisfaction. He went on in a careless tone that had no relationship to the smile: “Probably these chaps wouldn’t have amounted to much, anyhow. The man who has it in him to be wrecked by excess of any kind is bound to go under. Nothing can save him.” “No doubt,” assented Roger, with assumed indifference. The point Richmond had just made was new, was impressive--appealed disquietingly to the young man’s pride as well as to his intelligence. For the first time he looked upon his visitor as a dangerous man. He stood at the edge of the veranda in that expectant silence which compels a caller either to show cause why he should stay or to take himself off. Richmond covered his defeat and his embarrassment by returning to his chair and seating himself in the attitude of one far from the end of a leisurely and intimate visit. Roger could do nothing but reluctantly reseat himself. They smoked in silence a few minutes; then Richmond said reflectively: “So--you’re opposed to marriage?” “Unalterably,” said Roger. “I remember now. You said that to me the other day when”--Richmond laughed with frank good humor--“when I was suspecting you of designs on my daughter--or, rather, on my fortune. How absurd that seems now. But I had some excuse. I didn’t know you then. If I had I might not have been so well pleased by your views on matrimony.” As these words flowed fluently from Richmond’s gracious tongue Roger cast at him a furtive glance of amazed suspicion. “My older daughter,” continued Richmond, “is a thoroughly worldly woman. She has married a title--and is as happy as a normal woman would be over getting the man of her heart’s choice. But my other daughter----” Roger moved uncomfortably in his chair. Could it be possible-- No! No! Ridiculous! And yet--Preposterous! As little danger of it as of Roger himself giving in. “Beatrice”--Richmond pronounced the name with tenderness--and tenderness now seemed as essentially one of his traits as hardness or cruelty or tyranny-- “Beatrice is entirely different. But you know her. You artists read character. I needn’t tell you she is delightfully unworldly--foolishly romantic--need I?” “No,” said Roger in a hurried, harried way. “Your painting shows how thoroughly you understood--appreciated her. Wade, one of the finest things I ever knew a man to do was your refusal to take advantage of her inexperienced young imagination. It was noble--_noble_!” Roger looked wretched. “I--I don’t deserve that,” was his stammering but vigorous protest. “My motive was altogether different--wholly selfish.”