suited to it as Miss Marshall here for
being a college settlement worker!"

Sylvia broke out into an exclamation of wonder. "Oh, how you do put
your finger on the spot! If you knew how I've struggled to justify
myself for not going into 'social work' of some kind! Every girl
nowadays who doesn't marry at twenty, is slated for 'social
betterment' whether she has the least capacity for it or not. Public
opinion pushes us into it as mediaeval girls were shoved into
convents, because it doesn't know what else to do with us. It's all
right for Judith,--it's fine for her. She's made for it. I envy her.
I always have. But me--I never could bear the idea of interfering in
people's lives to tell them what to do about their children and their
husbands just because they were poor. It always seemed to me it was
bad enough to be poor without having other people with a little more
money messing around in your life. I'm different from that kind of
people. If I'm sincere I can't pretend I'm not different. And I'm not
a bit sure I know what's any better for them to do than what they're
doing!" She had spoken impetuously, hotly, addressing not the men
beside her but a specter of her past life.

"How true that is--how unerring the instinct which feels it!" said
Morrison appreciatively.

Page looked at Sylvia quickly, his clear eyes very tender. "Yes,
yes; it's her very own life that Sylvia needs to live," he said in
unexpected concurrence of opinion. Sylvia felt that the honors of the
discussion so far were certainly with Felix. And Austin seemed oddly
little concerned by this. He made no further effort to retrieve his
cause, but fell into a silence which seemed rather preoccupied than
defeated.

They were close to the Arc de Triomphe now. A brilliant sunset was
firing a salvo of scarlet and gold behind it, and they stood for a
moment to admire. "Oh, Paris! Paris!" murmured Morrison. "Paris
in April! There's only one thing better, and that we have before
us--Paris in May!"

They turned in past the loge of the concierge, and mounted in the
languidly moving elevator to the appartement. Felix went at once
to the piano and began playing something Sylvia did not recognize,
something brilliantly colored, vivid, resonant, sonorous, perhaps
Chabrier, she thought, remembering his remark on the avenue. Without
taking off her hat she stepped to her favorite post of observation,
the balcony, and sat down in the twilight with a sigh of exquisit