“It is no delusion; I wish it were.  It’s in my blood and breeding.  For generations my people have lived the unreal life.  I am the fine flower of my race, and in coming to this valley of dreams and this no-life I am merely fulfilling a destiny—­a fate, as you say—­and coming to my own.”

“But Emma, the worthy Verplancks?”

“No, listen to me.  For generations the Verplancks have been what people expected them to be, incarnate formulas of etiquette and timid living.  They took their colour from the gossiping society in which they seemed to live.  They prudently married other Verplancks, cousins or cousins’ cousins.  They hoarded their little fortunes without increasing them, and if what they called the rabble had not peopled New York and raised the price of land, which my people were merely too stolid to sell, we should long ago have gone under in penury.  We have led nobody and made nothing, but have been maintained by stronger forces and persons, toward whom we have always taken the air of doing a favour.  That mistake at least I shall not make with you, Crocker.  I want you to feel the full nullity of me.  As I see you now I have a twinge because my great grandfather, who was a small banker, would have called yours, who was a farmer—­you see I have looked you up—­not ‘Mister’ but ‘My Good Man.’”

For a moment she paused, and Crocker groped for a reply.  “All this may be true, Emma,” he said at last, “and yet mean very little to you and me.  Besides, I’m quite willing you should call me your Good Man.  In fact, I’d rather like it.”

“You must take me seriously—­you shall.  I cannot marry.  I’m married already.  Dennis says I am.  Come and see my bridegroom.”  And she fairly dragged the bewildered Crocker into her den and set him once more before the missing St. Michael.

“There he is, an incarnated weakness and fastidiousness.  His hand is too delicate to draw his own sword.  If he really cast out Satan, it must have been by merely staring him down.  His helmet rests with no weight upon his curled and perfumed locks—­his buckles are soft gold where iron should be.  He represents the dull, collective, aristocratic intolerance of Heaven for the only individualist it ever managed to produce.  He pretends to be a warrior and is as feminine as your St. Catherine.  He is the imperturbable champion of celestial good form, and Dennis, who sees through things, says he is my spiritual husband.  He is the weakest of the weak and is too strong for you, Crocker.”

For a space that seemed minutes they faced each other, Emma excited, with a diffused indignation that defied impartially the missing St. Michael and the puzzled man before her; Crocker with a perplexity that renewed the old boyish expression in his eyes.  He seemed to be thinking, and, as he thought, the tension of Emma’s attitude relaxed, she forgot to look at the St. Michael and wondered at the even, steady patience of the big likable boy she was dismissing.  She pitied him in advance for the futile argument he must be revolving.  She had despatched him as in duty bound and was both sorry and glad.