This last statement interested Williams almost more than anything Hale had said, for he suddenly appreciated the fact that he himself had had the same impression of the widow. "Miss Southgate finds her almost too pliable and docile," he said. "Then," answered Hale, "Miss Southgate has never tried to make her do something she did not want to. Oh, she's not petty--Doris! She'll drift quietly along with the stream, until something which makes a difference to her comes along, and then--" He wagged his head, compressing his lips in thought. "I don't see exactly how I can help you in the matter--if she thinks she does not want to marry you, and she has an iron will." "I don't want help; I want advice," said Hale. "I think she cares about me, but how much? If she really loves me, losing the fortune makes no difference. But if she doesn't--if she's just fond of me as an old friend--can I urge her to give up a million for the fun of being poor with me?" "Does it occur to you," asked Williams--"I don't want to say anything painful, but we must face facts--that she might love you a great deal and yet hesitate to give up the income from a million?" "Of course it has occurred to me," answered Hale, "and if I thought it was true I'd kidnap her." "Well, of course, you can't do that," said the lawyer; but his tone seemed to admit it wouldn't be a bad thing to do. He was surprised after his visitor had left to find how sincerely he hoped that Hale would succeed in marrying the little widow. He owned that he himself would not give up a million for any romance in the world; but then he was a middle-aged man who had lived his life, not a pretty young woman who had spent five years of her youth almost as an upper servant. She ought, he thought, to be unafraid of the adventure of poverty; though he was obliged to confess that there was an element of adventure, too, in spending a large income; an adventure which would appeal more strongly to most people. Only, he thought, there wouldn't be much joy in riches if one remained forever under the iron rule of Antonia. Soon after this, that first day of spring arrived which always comes to deceive New Yorkers sometime in March; that day when the air is warm and the sky a pale even blue, and the north side of the street is dry and clear and the south side still runs in slush and rivulets. Then almost everyone does something foolish--from wearing thin clothes and letting the furnace go out to mistakes of a more devastating sort.