e that!" pouted Flora, charmingly. "That is
a cruel, ascetic conception of love. It makes me shiver, like reading
the New Testament."

For the first time Artie spoke.

"You prefer, then, the Song of Solomon?" And the Angel brought his
hand down on the table a little heavily, and looked at me.

"Yes, I do!" laughed Flora, thinking she had scored. "And I
know--because I have loved!"

"You have loved, have you?" said Cary, leaning forward to look at her
across Artie's tucked shirt-front. "Then if you have, truly and
deeply, as a woman can, when she meets the man who is her mate, can you
jest so lightly about love being an acquisition? Are you thinking of
his income and what he can give you more than your father has been able
to do? Does your idea of marriage consist of dinner-parties and routs?
Or do you think of the man himself? Of his noble qualities of heart
and mind? Does not the idea of permanent prosperity sometimes fade,
and in its place do you not sometimes see the man you love, poor,
neglected by his friends, and jeered by his enemies? Does he not
sometimes appear to you stretched on a weary bed of sickness? Can you
picture yourself his only friend, his only helper, his only comforter?
If he were crippled for life, would you go out to try to earn bread for
two, rejoicing that Fate had only taken his strength to toil, and not
his strength to love? Would you still count yourself a blessed woman
if you knew that everything were swept away but the love of a man worth
loving like that?"

Flora quailed, and drew back, abashed and a little frightened, but
Artie's face was a study. At a sign from Aubrey, I looked at Mrs.
Jimmie and rose. Just behind me, as I turned, I heard Artie whisper to
Cary:

"Tell me, have _you_ ever loved like that?"

And Cary's murmured reply:

"Not yet, but--I could."

After that, Flora's fascination seemed to wane. Mrs. Jimmie never had
liked her, and as we went into the drawing-room she gave Cary one of
her rare and highly prized caresses, which Cary received gratefully.

As for Artie, he never left Cary's side. He was the first to follow us
to the drawing-room, for as I always let men smoke at the table, we
always leave it _en masse_.

He said little, but he listened to every word Cary spoke, and he
watched her as if fascinated.

I was jubilant, and my sober old Angel almost permitted himself to look
pleased, but not quite. The Angel is never reckless with his