“Oh! Don’t let us even suppose. . .” The professor struck in with a sadder accent than before— “It’s good to be young. And then you have been a man of action, and necessarily a believer in success. But I have been looking too long at life not to distrust its surprises. Age! Age! Here I stand before you a man full of doubts and hesitation—_spe lentus_, _timidus futuri_.” He made a sign to Renouard not to interrupt, and in a lowered voice, as if afraid of being overheard, even there, in the solitude of the terrace— “And the worst is that I am not even sure how far this sentimental pilgrimage is genuine. Yes. I doubt my own child. It’s true that she’s a woman. . . . ” Renouard detected with horror a tone of resentment, as if the professor had never forgiven his daughter for not dying instead of his son. The latter noticed the young man’s stony stare. “Ah! you don’t understand. Yes, she’s clever, open-minded, popular, and—well, charming. But you don’t know what it is to have moved, breathed, existed, and even triumphed in the mere smother and froth of life—the brilliant froth. There thoughts, sentiments, opinions, feelings, actions too, are nothing but agitation in empty space—to amuse life—a sort of superior debauchery, exciting and fatiguing, meaning nothing, leading nowhere. She is the creature of that circle. And I ask myself if she is obeying the uneasiness of an instinct seeking its satisfaction, or is it a revulsion of feeling, or is she merely deceiving her own heart by this dangerous trifling with romantic images. And everything is possible—except sincerity, such as only stark, struggling humanity can know. No woman can stand that mode of life in which women rule, and remain a perfectly genuine, simple human being. Ah! There’s some people coming out.” He moved off a pace, then turning his head: “Upon my word! I would be infinitely obliged to you if you could throw a little cold water. . . ” and at a vaguely dismayed gesture of Renouard, he added: “Don’t be afraid. You wouldn’t be putting out a sacred fire.” Renouard could hardly find words for a protest: “I assure you that I never talk with Miss Moorsom—on—on—that. And if you, her father . . . ” “I envy you your innocence,” sighed the professor. “A father is only an everyday person. Flat. Stale. Moreover, my child would naturally mistrust me. We belong to the same set. Whereas you carry with you the prestige of the unknown. You have proved yourself to be a force.” Thereupon the professor followed by Renouard joined the circle of all the inmates of the house assembled at the other end of the terrace about a tea-table; three white heads and that resplendent vision of woman’s glory, the sight of which had the power to flutter his heart like a reminder of the mortality of his frame.