He has come this afternoon with a set of certain questions that he means to put, to all of which her answers are received without comment, and mentally noted down.

He neither repeats himself, nor presses a point, nor leaves out anything on his mental list, nor allows any remark to lead away from it.

He has also certain things he means to say, which he will say, as he asks his questions, deliberately, one after the other; and then, when he has heard and said all he intends, he will terminate the conversation as decisively as he began it and go.  The girl feels all this, for her brain is as clear and keen as the glance of her eyes.

She knows that he is testing her:  that she stands upon trial before him.

She has nothing to hide:  only, that too great love and devotion, that seems to swell and swell irrepressibly within her, and would pour itself out in words to him, but that his tone, his manner, his look keep it back absolutely, as a firm hand holds down the rising cork upon the exuberant wine.  And now, at this sentence of his, her words fail her.  They are strangers practically, that is conventionally—­quite strangers, she remembers confusedly—­but for this secret bond of passion, knit up between them, which both can feel but both ignore.

The natural male in him, and the natural female in her, are already, as it were, familiar, but the fashionable man and girl are strangers still.

Then, now, how is she to say what she wishes to him?  How can she talk with this mere acquaintance upon this subject?  The very word “children” seems to scorch her lips.  At the same time, familiarity with him seems natural and unnatural; terrible, and yet simple.

Then, too, what are his views?

Will her next words shock him inexpressibly?

In her passionate, excitable brain, inflamed with love for the man, the idea of maternity can merely present itself like an unwelcome, grey-clad Quaker at a banquet.

She hesitates, choosing her words.  She knows so little of the man in front of her.  His clothes, she sees, are of the newest cut, but his notions may not be.

At last her soft, weak, timid voice breaks the pause.

“Do you think it necessary to have very large families?”

“No, I don’t,” he answers instantly with the energy and alacrity of one who is glad to express his opinion.  “No, I don’t, not at all.”

The girl’s suspended breath is drawn again.  Unlike himself in his queries she presses her point home.

“Don’t you think those marriages are the happiest where there are no children?”

“Yes,” he says decidedly, getting up and thrusting his hands into his coat pockets.  “Yes, I do—­much the happiest.”

There is silence.  It is too dark for either to see the other’s expression.  He stands irresolutely for a minute or two, and then says with a disagreeable laugh: 

“I should hate my own children!  Fancy coming home and finding a lot of children crying and screaming in the place.”