had
changed all that. In society he was a nervous organism gone cold, a
deliberate, self-contained man. But insomuch as he was chastened of
enthusiasm outwardly he was boyishly earnest inwardly.

He was telling Mrs. Detlor of some incident he had seen in South Africa
when sketching there for a London weekly, telling it graphically,
incisively--he was not fluent. He etched in speech; he did not paint. She
looked up at him once or twice as if some thought was running parallel
with his story. He caught the look. He had just come to the close of his
narrative. Presently she put out her hand and touched his arm.

"You have great tact," she said, "and I am grateful."

"I will not question your judgment," he replied, smiling. "I am glad that
you think so, and humbled too."

"Why humbled?" she laughed softly. "I can't imagine that."

"There are good opinions which make us vain, others which make us anxious
to live up to them, while we are afraid we can't."

"Few men know that kind of fear. You are a vain race."

"You know best. Men show certain traits to women most."

"That is true. Of the most real things they seldom speak to each other,
but to women they often speak freely, and it makes one shudder--till one
knows the world, and gets used to it."

"Why shudder?" He guessed the answer, but he wanted, not from mere
curiosity, to hear her say it.

"The business of life they take seriously--money, position, chiefly
money. Life itself--home, happiness, the affections, friendship--is an
incident, a thing to juggle with."

"I do not know you in this satirical mood," he answered. "I need time to
get used to it before I can reply."

"I surprise you? People do not expect me ever to be either serious or--or
satirical, only look to me to be amiable and merry. 'Your only jig-maker,'
as Hamlet said--a sprightly Columbine. Am I rhetorical?"

"I don't believe you are really satirical, and please don't think me
impertinent if I say I do not like your irony. The other character suits
you, for, by nature, you are--are you not?--both merry and amiable. The
rest"--

"'The rest is silence.' * * * I can remember when mere living was
delightful. I didn't envy the birds. That sounds sentimental to a man,
doesn't it? But then that is the way a happy girl--a child--feels. I do
not envy the birds now, though I suppose it is silly for a worldly woman
to talk so."

"Whom, then, do you envy?"

There was a warm, frank light in her eyes.