“See here,” he said, “it’s a crime for a girl of your age to talk like this. It’s a silly habit. I don’t believe you’re like that at heart.” “You talk,” said she, “like Edward Hickson.” “In some communities that would be thought a fighting word,” he returned. “But you haven’t yet answered my question. You’ve told me what your friends have done; but what would you do yourself, if you fell in love with a poor man?” “In the first place, I never should. What makes a man attractive to me is power, preëminence, being bowed down to. If I lived in a military country, I’d love the greatest soldier; and if I lived in a savage country, I’d love the strongest warrior; but here to-day, the only form of power I see is money. It’s what makes you able to have everything you want, and that’s a man’s greatest charm.” “And it seems to me that the most tied-down creatures I ever saw are the rich men I’ve met in the East.” She was honestly surprised. “Why, what is there they can’t do?” she asked. He smiled. “They can’t do anything that might endanger their property rights,” he answered, “and that seems to me to cut them off from most forms of human endeavor. But no matter about that. You say you would not be likely to fall in love with a poor man, but suppose you _did_. Perhaps it has happened already?” Miss Fenimer looked thoughtful. “I was trying to think,” she said. “Yes, there was a young artist two years ago that I was rather interested in. He was very nice looking, and Nancy Almar kept telling me how much he was in love with her.” “And that stimulated your interest?” “Of course.” “Just for the sake of information,” he said, “do you always want to take away any man who is safely devoted to another woman?” Christine seemed resolved to be accurate. “It depends,” she answered, “whether or not I have anything else to do, but of course the idea always pops into one’s head: I wonder if I couldn’t make him like me best.” “And do you always find you can?” “Oh, there’s no rule about it; only as a newcomer one has the advantage of novelty, and that’s something.” “And what happened about this artist?” Christine smiled reminiscently: “I found he wasn’t really in love with Nancy at all: he just wanted to paint her portrait.” “I should think he would have wanted to paint yours.” “He did and gave it to me as a present, and then he behaved very badly.” She sighed. “What did he do?”