Unconsciously she left the time-worn paths of beauty and success, and became young, and fresh, and whole-hearted as he; tackling abstruse problems with a childlike, vigorous air; holding him spell-bound with her own charm of conversation one moment, and leading him on to talk with ease and frankness the next. The other diners got up and retired to the lounge, and still they sat on; no hint of boredom, no note of disparity, no need of other companionship. As they were preparing to rise, she told him lightly that he talked amazingly well for his tender years. “Only twenty-four,” he answered; “it does seem a kiddish age, doesn’t it!” “Dreadfully kiddish. It makes me feel old enough to be your grandmother.” He glanced up, half-questioning, half-deprecating. “That would be the oddest thing of all, unless I really appear to be about twenty years before my time.” For a reason she could not have fathomed, she looked into his eyes with a sudden seriousness and said: “I was thirty-two last week.” She saw a quick look of surprise he did not attempt to hide, followed by a very charming smile, as he asserted: “It is impossible. You could not sit there and look like that if you were thirty-two.” “The impossible is so often the true. I’m glad you don’t think I seem old. It is nice to believe one can keep young at heart, in spite of the years. Shall we go to the lounge?” Again they moved through the admiring crowd, but this time Lorraine felt less idle interest and more inward wonder; and without any misgiving she steered to a quiet alcove, where they could talk without again being the cynosure of many eyes. Here, in a pleasant, friendly way, she led him once again to talk of the future, and was glad to find, in answering sincerity with sincerity, he was ready to admit that he was a little sorry about his own lack of ambition and want of application. He did not pretend now that it was of no moment. He told her he would like to achieve, only somehow he always found his attention wander to other things, and his desire grow slack after a week of rigid application. She recognised that the motive-power was missing, and that unless something deeper than mere desire of achievement stirred him, he would probably never attain. He needed a goal that should make everything else in the world pale before it, and something that seemed almost as life and death to hang on his success. But how get it for him? If he loved, and was bidden wait until he had prospered, the end was all too sure and the love too easy. It was something different that was needed; something that would bring him up with dead abruptness against a blank wall, and leave him with a taste of life that was dust and ashes unless he found a way through. Either that or some sweet, wild, unattainable desire, that might drive him to work and ambition by way of escape.