“I feel sorry for Mr. and Mrs. Wildmere, though; especially the former.  I think he might have been quite different had the fates been kinder.”

“I would rather dismiss them all from my mind as far as possible.  Don’t think me callous about Stella.  If she had decided for me at once and been true I would have been loyal to her in spite of everything; but the revelation of her cold, mercenary soul makes me shudder when I think how narrowly I escaped allying myself to it.”

“You have indeed had an escape,” Madge replied, gravely.  “If she were a young, thoughtless, undeveloped girl her womanhood might have come to her afterward.  I hope I am mistaken, but she has made a singular impression on me.”

“Please tell me it.  You have insight into character that in one so young is surprising.”

“I have no special insight.  I simply feel people.  They create an atmosphere and make some dominant impression with which I always associate them.”

“I am eager to know what impression Miss Wildmere has made.”

“I fear this would be true of her, even after she becomes a mature woman.  A man might be almost perishing at her side from mental trouble of some kind, and, so far from feeling for him and sympathizing, she wouldn’t even know it, and he couldn’t make her know it.  She would look at him quietly with her gray eyes as she would at a problem in the calculus, and with scarcely more desire to understand him, and with perhaps less power to do so.  She would turn from him to a new dress, a new admirer, or a new phase of amusement, and forget him, and the fact that he was her husband would not make much difference.  Some deep experience of her own may change her, but I don’t know.  I fear another’s experience would be like a tragedy without the walls while she was safe within.”

“Oh, Madge, think of a man with a strong, sensitive nature beating his very heart to death against such pumice-stone callousness!”

“I don’t like to think of it,” she replied.  “Come, I ask with you now that we forget her as far as possible.  She may not disappoint a man like Arnault.  Let them both become shadows in the background of memory.  Here’s a level place.  Now for a gallop.”

When at last they pulled up, Graydon said, “Your horse is awfully strong and restless to-day.”

“Yes; he has not been used enough of late.  He’ll be quiet before night, for I am enjoying this so much that I should like to return in the same way.”

“I am delighted to hear you say so.  My spirits begin to rise the moment I am with you, and you are the only woman I ever knew from whose side I could not go with the feeling, ’Well, some other time would suit me now.’”

Her laugh rang out so suddenly and merrily that her horse sprang into a gallop, but she checked him speedily, and thought, with an exultant thrill, “Graydon now has surely revealed an unmistakable symptom.”  To him she said: