clear at times how very much
you mean to him."

She was looking at me steadily while I said this, stroking little Ben's
head as he slumbered. Her eyes were very bright, and they searched my
face relentlessly.

"And you think I do not know that?" she asked slowly.

"You will think me presumptuous to have said so much. You must forgive a
shy man who means no ill. Of course, you know that. What I pray for this
coming year is that you will not forget it."

There was a long silence, and I fixed my eyes on a brass ash-tray and a
row of corn-cobs that stood on a little table by the radiator. At length
she rose and gently lifted the children to their feet, holding them
close to her.

"You think bad of me, then?" she queried in a curiously toneless voice.

"Who? I?"

"All of you."

"You know we do not. You must blame only me for this. We think bad of
you! Listen, Mrs. Carville. My business is with books and you may think
I know nothing of the life you and your husband live. But my business is
also with humanity. It is for humanity I live, for them I work, and
their praise is my reward. I am, in a way, in love with humanity. All
the time I want _people_. They are the only thing that matters. And this
gives me a light on a good deal you might think I missed. I know how
quickly people break and are carried away. I know the strongest are
often the weakest. I know we often give way just when we feel strong. I
know something of illusions. So I have spoken. To-morrow you will laugh
and say, 'It don't matter what he thinks,' And I still wish you a Happy
New Year. Will you wish me one? Because I love people, humanity, so
much?" And I made my way, rather overcome by feeling, out to the hall.
As I raised the latch to go out, I looked back at her. She stood at the
parlour door, the light of the hall-lamp throwing her features into
sharp relief.

"Wait," she said softly. I waited.

"You think bad of me?" she said again. "Why, what have I done?"

"No!" I said. "You wrong us. We should not dare ..."

"Surely," she replied, looking at me in an odd, arch manner. "So I was
thinking. Good night. It is Christmas. I do not think bad of you. Good
night."

And then I was running through the snow.

I did not recount this conversation in all its details to the supper
party I found in the studio. I wanted to think it out. I wanted to
recall and consider this--to me--very unusual interview with a married
woman. I was reminded, as I lay