For Nina must remain but a substitute at best; what was wanting must remain wanting; and race and blood must interpret for itself the subtler and unasked questions of an innocence slowly awaking to a wisdom which makes us all less wise.

So when she said that she was tired of gaiety, that she would like to study, he said that he would take up anything she chose with her.  And when she spoke vaguely of a life devoted to good works—­of the wiser charity, of being morally equipped to aid those who required material aid, he was very serious, but ventured to suggest that she dance her first season through as a sort of flesh-mortifying penance preliminary to her spiritual novitiate.

“Yes,” she admitted thoughtfully; “you are right.  Nina would feel dreadfully if I did not go on—­or if she imagined I cared so little for it all.  But one season is enough to waste.  Don’t you think so?”

“Quite enough,” he assured her.

“—­And—­why should I ever marry?” she demanded, lifting her clear, sweet eyes to his.

“Why indeed?” he repeated with conviction.  “I can see no reason.”

“I am glad you understand me,” she said.  “I am not a marrying woman.”

“Not at all,” he assured her.

“No, I am not; and Nina—­the darling—­doesn’t understand.  Why, what do you suppose!—­but would it be a breach of confidence to anybody if I told you?”

“I doubt it,” he said; “what is it you have to tell me?”

“Only—­it’s very, very silly—­only several men—­and one nice enough to know better—­Sudbury Gray—­”

“Asked you to marry them?” he finished, nodding his head at the cat.

“Yes,” she admitted, frankly astonished; “but how did you know?”

“Inferred it.  Go on.”

“There is nothing more,” she said, without embarrassment.  “I told Nina each time; but she confused me by asking for details; and the details were too foolish and too annoying to repeat. . . .  I do not wish to marry anybody.  I think I made that very plain to—­everybody.”

“Right as usual,” he said cheerfully; “you are too intelligent to consider that sort of thing just now.”

“You do understand me, don’t you?” she said gratefully.  “There are so many serious things in life to learn and to think of, and that is the very last thing I should ever consider. . . .  I am very, very glad I had this talk with you.  Now I am rested and I shall retire for a good long sleep.”

With which paradox she stood up, stifling a tiny yawn, and looked smilingly at him, all the old sweet confidence in her eyes.  Then, suddenly mocking: 

“Who suggested that you call me by my first name?” she asked.

“Some good angel or other.  May I?”

“If you please; I rather like it.  But I couldn’t very well call you anything except ‘Captain Selwyn.’”

“On account of my age?”

“Your age!”—­contemptuous in her confident equality.