had vanished in a moment； how she was merely marking
time as best she could； not knowing in the least where
they stood； what they felt； or whether William loved her
or not。 More and more the condition of Mary’s mind seemed
to her wonderful and enviable—if； indeed； it could be
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quite as she figured it—if； indeed； simplicity existed for
any one of the daughters of women。
“Swift；” she said； at last； taking out a volume at haphazard
to settle this question at least。 “Let us have some
Swift。”
Rodney took the book； held it in front of him； inserted
one finger between the pages； but said nothing。 His face
wore a queer expression of deliberation； as if he were
weighing one thing with another； and would not say anything
until his mind were made up。
Katharine； taking her chair beside him； noted his silence
and looked at him with sudden apprehension。 What
she hoped or feared； she could not have said； a most
irrational and indefensible desire for some assurance of
his affection was； perhaps； uppermost in her mind。 Peevishness；
plaints； exacting crossexamination she was
used to； but this attitude of posed quiet； which
seemed to e from the consciousness of power within；
puzzled her。 She did not know what was going to happen
next。
At last William spoke。
“I think it’s a little odd； don’t you？” he said； in a voice
of detached reflection。 “Most people； I mean； would be
seriously upset if their marriage was put off for six months
or so。 But we aren’t； now how do you account for that？”
She looked at him and observed his judicial attitude as
of one holding far aloof from emotion。
“I attribute it；” he went on； without waiting for her to
answer； “to the fact that neither of us is in the least
romantic about the other。 That may be partly； no doubt；
because we’ve known each other so long； but I’m inclined
to think there’s more in it than that。 There’s something
temperamental。 I think you’re a trifle cold； and I
suspect I’m a trifle selfabsorbed。 If that were so it goes
a long way to explaining our odd lack of illusion about
each other。 I’m not saying that the most satisfactory
marriages aren’t founded upon this sort of understanding。
But certainly it struck me as odd this morning； when
Wilson told me； how little upset I felt。 By the way； you’re
sure we haven’t mitted ourselves to that house？”
“I’ve kept the letters； and I’ll go through them tomorrow；
but I’m certain we’re on the safe side。”
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“Thanks。 As to the psychological problem；” he continued；
as if the question interested him in a detached way；
“there’s no doubt； I think； that either of us is capable of
feeling what； for reasons of simplicity； I call romance for
a third person—at least； I’ve little doubt in my own case。”
It was； perhaps； the first time in all her knowledge of
him that Katharine had known William enter thus deliberately
and without sign of emotion upon a statement of
his own feelings。 He was wont to discourage such intimate
discussions by a little laugh or turn of the conversation；
as much as to say that men； or men of the world；
find such topics a little silly； or in doubtful taste。 His
obvious wish to explain something puzzled her； interested
her； and neutralized the wound to her vanity。 For
some reason； too； she felt more at ease with him than
usual； or her ease was more the ease of equality—she
could not stop to think of that at the moment though。
His remarks interested her too much for the light that
they threw upon certain problems of her own。
“What is this romance？” she mused。
“Ah； that’s the question。 I’ve never e across a defi
nition that satisfied me； though there are some very good
ones”—he glanced in the direction of his books。
“It’s not altogether knowing the other person； perhaps—
it’s ignorance；” she hazarded。
“Some authorities say it’s a question of distance—romance
in literature； that is—”
“Possibly； in the case of art。 But in the case of people it
may be—” she hesitated。
“Have you no personal experience of it？” he asked； letting
his eyes rest upon her swiftly for a moment。
“I believe it’s influenced me enormously；” she said； in
the tone of one absorbed by the possibilities of some
view just presented to them； “but in my life there’s so
little scope for it；” she added。 She reviewed her daily
task； the perpetual demands upon her for good sense；
selfcontrol； and accuracy in a house containing a romantic
mother。 Ah； but her romance wasn’t that romance。
It was a desire； an echo； a sound； she could drape it in
color； see it in form； hear it in music； but not in words；
no； never in words。 She sighed； teased by desires so incoherent；
so inmunicable。
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“But isn’t it curious；” William resumed； “that you should
neither feel it for me； nor I for you？”
Katharine agreed that it was curious—very； but even
more curious to her was the fact that she was discussing
the question with William。 It revealed possibilities which
opened a prospect of a new relationship altogether。 Somehow
it seemed to her that he was helping her to understand
what she had never understood； and in her gratitude
she was conscious of a most sisterly desire to help
him； too—sisterly； save for one pang； not quite to be
subdued； that for him she was without romance。
“I think you might be very happy with some one you
loved in that way；” she said。
“You assume that romance survives a closer knowledge
of the person one loves？”
He asked the question formally； to protect himself from
the sort of personality which he dreaded。 The whole situation
needed the most careful management lest it should
degenerate into some degrading and disturbing exhibition
such as the scene； which he could never think of
without shame； upon the heath among the dead leaves。
And yet each sentence brought him relief。 He was ing
to understand something or other about his own desires
hitherto undefined by him； the source of his difficulty
with Katharine。 The wish to hurt her； which had
urged him to begin； had pletely left him； and he felt
that it was only Katharine now who could help him to be
sure。 He must take his time。 There were so many things
that he could not say without the greatest difficulty—
that name； for example； Cassandra。 Nor could he move
his eyes from a certain spot； a fiery glen surrounded by
high mountains； in the heart of the coals。 He waited in
suspense for Katharine to continue。 She had said that he
might be very happy with some one he loved in that way。
“I don’t see why it shouldn’t last with you；” she resumed。
“I can imagine a certain sort of person—” she
paused； she was aware that he was listening with the
greatest intentness； and that his formality was merely
the cover for an extreme anxiety of some sort。 There was
some person then—some woman—who could it be？
Cassandra？ Ah； possibly—
“A person；” she added； speaking in the most matter