" she asked anxiously.

"You are letting your thoughts obstruct your eyes," he said simply. "I
have walked into three boulders without your knowing it."

"I am sorry," she said earnestly. "It was silly of me."

He laughed and sat down. "You see, as eyes you can't afford to think. At
other times perhaps I, too, should wander into abstractions, but at
present it won't work."

"I know it," she admitted contritely. "I won't repeat it."

"What," he asked, "is the subject of all this meditation?"

She blushed, and her eyes darkened. She wondered whether she should tell
the truth, started to do so, then changed her mind. "I was asking myself
what my husband was probably doing and thinking."

"Poor fellow!" Lawrence was sincerely thoughtful. "I can imagine what it
must be to him, supposing you lost at sea. Yes, he must be suffering
badly. I don't believe I would change places with him."

Claire started at Lawrence. "Are you flattering me?" she asked coldly.

"Not at all," he replied. "I am merely stating the truth. I have an
imagination, my dear lady. I can quite grasp your husband's position.
You would certainly be a loss to a man who loved you, and I shouldn't
care to be that man."

"Shouldn't you?" she said instinctively, and bit her lip for saying it.

"Not under the circumstances," answered Lawrence. "I never did fancy the
idea of death visiting my loved ones. I have never got over its having
done so."

"Oh"--her voice softened--"then you have lost your--" She waited.

"I am an orphan," he said bruskly.

She was ashamed of her relief. How ridiculous it was to have imagined
him, even for an instant, as a married man! He was so cold, so
impersonal; of course, he had never married, and never would. Well, that
was best; a blind man had no right to marry. He owed it to himself and
to any woman not to place her in the position of caring for him,
handicapped as he was, and so unable to give her the companionship, the
comradeship a woman deserved. She could see how he would treat a wife:
feed her well, clothe her, care for her comfort, and talk to her if she
desired, but he would never be tender, loving, sympathetic, or
understanding. No, he could not be; he was too self-centered, too much
the artist. That last seemed to her a correct estimate of him, and she
settled her mind on it as being final.

"So you are alone in the world?" Claire said, renewing the conversation.

"Quite," answered Lawrence. "I am as free