“That sounds like a puzzle—a—a conundrum. I give it up. What’s the answer?”

“I’ve lived in France several years,” said he, “and I’ve learned the sound sense back of their marriage system. Love and marriage have nothing to do with each other.”

The gray eyes opened wide.

“Nothing to do with each other,” pursued he tranquilly. “Love is all excitement; marriage ought to be all calm. Marriage means a home—a family—a place to bring up children in peace and tranquillity, a safe harbor. Love is a Bohemian; marriage is a bourgeois. Love is insanity; marriage is sanity. Love is disease; marriage is solid, stolid health.”

“I think those ideas are just horrid!” cried she.

He laughed at her with his eyes. In a tone of raillery[13] he said: “And you—who love money, you say—do you intend to marry for love?—just love?—only love?”

[13]

Her eyes shifted. He laughed aloud. Her glance fell.

“Not a thought about his income—prospects?” he mocked.

She recovered from her confusion, laughed back at him a confession that she had been fairly caught in a refined, womanly hypocrisy—woman being the official high priestess of the sentimentalities. “But I don’t approve of myself—not in the least,” cried she. “In my better moments I’m ashamed of myself.”

“You needn’t be,” said he cheerfully. “You’re simply human. And one need never apologize for being human.”

She was gazing earnestly into the fire. “Would you—marry a girl—say, for—for money?” she asked. And her color was not from the firelight.

“As I’ve told you,” replied he, “I wouldn’t marry for anything—not even for the girl.”

“Wouldn’t you despise anyone who did such a thing?” Still she was avoiding looking at him.

“I don’t despise,” replied he. “Everyone of us seeks that which he most wants. I, who devote my life to my selfish passion for painting—who am I to despise some one else for devoting himself to his passion for—what[14] you please—comfort—luxury—snobbishness—no matter what, so long as it harms no one else?”

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