“When one has filled the cup of life to the brim for many years,” she said, “what remains that is worth while?”      

       He bowed.     

       “You are a young woman,” he said. “You should not yet have learned to speak with such bitterness. As for me—well, I am old indeed. In youth and age the affections claim us. I am approaching my second childhood.”      

       She laughed derisively, yet not unkindly. “What folly!” she exclaimed.     

       “You are right,” he admitted. “I suppose it is the fault of old associations.”      

       “In a few minutes,” she said, smiling at him, “we should have become sentimental.”      

       “I,” he admitted, “was floundering already.”      

       She shrugged her shoulders.     

       “You talk as though sentiment were a bog.”      

       “There have been worse similes,” he declared.     

       “How horrid! And do you know, sir, for all your indignation you have not yet even inquired after your wife’s health.”      

       “I trust,” he said, “that she is well.”      

       “She is in excellent health.”      

       “Your second visit to this country,” he remarked, “follows very swiftly upon your first.”      

       She nodded.     

       “I am here,” she said, “on your account.”      

       “You excite my interest,” he declared. “May I know your mission?”      

       “I have to remind you of your pledge,” she said, “to assure you of Lucille’s welfare, and to prevent your leaving the country.”      

       “Marvelous!” he exclaimed, with a slight mocking smile. “And may I ask what means you intend to employ to keep me here?”      

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