“I’m married to my art,” explained he. “In marriage the only chance for keeping love alive and warm is poverty. Show me a rich artist and I’ll show you a poor one.” He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he meant what he said. The girl was not at all impressed. “You’d better never fall in love,” laughed she, making a charming wry face. “You’ll not find any woman who’d honestly marry you on those terms.” “What a poor memory you have--for what I say,” reproached he. “Haven’t I always told you I never should?” “I remember perfectly,” replied she. “But I’ve always answered that you can’t be sure.” “Oh, yes, I can,” said he, with irritating, challenging confidence. “As I said, I’m already in love. And I’m the most constant person you ever knew.” “That doesn’t mean anything,” said she, looking shrewdly at him. And the gray eyes, with all the softness of sleep driven from them, were now keen rather than kind. “You are young, for all your serious look; and you are romantic, I suppose. Artists always are. You will fall in love.” “Not impossible,” conceded he. “And marry,” concluded she, with the air of having proved her case. “If I loved a woman I wouldn’t marry her. If I didn’t love her I couldn’t.” “That sounds like a puzzle--a--a conundrum. I give it up. What’s the answer?” “I’ve lived in France several years,” said he, “and I’ve learned the sound sense back of their marriage system. Love and marriage have nothing to do with each other.” The gray eyes opened wide. “Nothing to do with each other,” pursued he tranquilly. “Love is all excitement; marriage ought to be all calm. Marriage means a home--a family--a place to bring up children in peace and tranquillity, a safe harbor. Love is a Bohemian; marriage is a bourgeois. Love is insanity; marriage is sanity. Love is disease; marriage is solid, stolid health.” “I think those ideas are just horrid!” cried she. He laughed at her with his eyes. In a tone of raillery he said: “And you--who love money, you say--do _you_ intend to marry for love?--just love?--only love?” Her eyes shifted. He laughed aloud. Her glance fell. “Not a thought about his income--prospects?” he mocked. She recovered from her confusion, laughed back at him a confession that she had been fairly caught in a refined, womanly hypocrisy--woman being the official high priestess of the sentimentalities. “But I don’t approve of myself--not in the least,” cried she. “In my better moments I’m ashamed of myself.” “You needn’t be,” said he cheerfully. “You’re simply human. And one need never apologize for being human.” She was gazing earnestly into the fire. “Would _you_--marry a girl--say, for--for money?” she asked. And her color was not from the firelight. “As I’ve told you,” replied he, “I wouldn’t marry for anything--not even for the girl.” “Wouldn’t you despise anyone who did such a thing?” Still she was avoiding looking at him.