“Yes.  Unless the man is in love.  Let a man care enough for a woman, and money or position will not frighten him off.”

“Such men are rare.  Or perhaps it is because I did not attract them.  I did not understand men as well then as I do now.  Of some whom I thought unlovable or dull at that time, I have learned to think better.  A woman does not marry to be entertained—­or should not.”

“I think,” said Peter, “that one marries for love and sympathy.”

“Yes.  And if they are given, it does not matter about the rest.  Even now, thirty-seven though I am, if I could find a true man who could love me as I wish to be loved, I could love him with my whole heart.  It would be my happiness not merely to give him social position and wealth, but to make his every hope and wish mine also.”

All this had been said in the same natural manner in which they both usually spoke.  Miss De Voe had talked without apparent emotion.  But when she began the last remark, she had stopped looking at Peter, and had gazed off through the window at the green lawn, merely showing him her profile.  As a consequence she did not see how pale he suddenly became, nor the look of great suffering that came into his face.  She did not see this look pass and his face, and especially his mouth, settle into a rigid determination, even while the eyes remained sad.

Miss De Voe ended the pause by beginning, “Don’t you”—­but Peter interrupted her there, by saying: 

“It is a very sad story to me—­because I—­I once craved love and sympathy.”

Miss De Voe turned and looked at him quickly.  She saw the look of suffering on his face, but read it amiss.  “You mean?” she questioned.

“There was a girl I loved,” said Peter softly, “who did not love me.”

“And you love her still?”

“I have no right to.”

“She is married?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

“I—­I would rather not.”

Miss De Voe sat quietly for a moment, and then rose.  “Dear friend,” she said, laying her hand on Peter’s shoulder, “we have both missed the great prize in life.  Your lot is harder than the one I have told you about.  It is very,”—­Miss De Voe paused a moment,—­“it is very sad to love—­without being loved.”

And so ended Lispenard’s comedy.

CHAPTER XXXI.

CONFLICTS.

Lispenard went back with Peter to the city.  He gave his reason on the train: 

“You see I go back to the city occasionally in the summer, so as to make the country bearable, and then I go back to the country, so as to make the city endurable.  I shall be in Newport again in a week.  When will you come back?”

“My summering’s over.”

“Indeed.  I thought my cousin would want you again!”

“She did not say so.”

“The deuce she didn’t.  It must be the only thing she didn’t say, then, in your long confabs?”