s he not infrequently did after his supper, now that
Thor was away. Indeed, his visits were so regular as to make her afraid
that with his curious social or spiritual second sight he suspected more
in Thor's absence than zeal for the science of medicine.

"Why do men fall in love with inferior women?--become infatuated with
them?"

He answered while sprawling before the library fire, his long legs
apart, his fingers interlocked over his old tan waistcoat. "No use to
discuss love with a woman. She can't get hold of it by the right end."

"Oh, but I thought that was just what she could do--one of the few
capabilities universally conceded her."

"All wrong, my dear. A man occasionally understands love, but a woman
never--or so rarely that it hardly counts. Gets it backward--wrong end
first--nine women out of ten."

She looked up from her sewing. "I do wish you'd tell me what you mean by
that."

"Clear enough. Love is in the first place the instinct to love some one
else, and only in the second place the desire to be loved in return. Ten
to one, the woman puts the cart before the horse. She's thinking of the
return before she's done anything to get it. She don't want to love half
as much as to be _loved_--and so she finds herself left."

Lois went on with her sewing again, but she was uneasy. She thought of
her confession to Thor. Could it be that there was something wrong with
her love as well as with his? It was to see what he had to say further
that she asked, "Finds herself left in what way?"

"Make 'emselves too sentimental," he grumbled on. "In love with love.
They like that expression, and it does 'em harm. Sets 'em to
wool-gathering--with the heart. Makes 'em think love more important than
it is."

"It's generally supposed to be rather important."

"Rather's the word. But it's not the only thing of which that can be
said--and more. Women reason as if it was. Make their lives depend on
it. Mistake. If you can get it, well and good; if not--there's
compensation."

She lifted her head not less in amazement than in indignation.
"Compensation for having to do without _love_?"

"Heaps."

"And may I ask what?"

"No use telling you. Wouldn't believe me. Be like telling a man who's
fond of his wine that he'd be just as well off with water."

She said, musingly, "Yes; love _is_ the wine of life, isn't it?"

"Wine that maketh glad the heart of man--and can also play the deuce
with it."

She sat for some