Gertrude, with her eyes on his, shook her head.  “I don’t care for the great questions of life.  They are much beyond me.”

“There was a time when you did n’t say that,” said Mr. Brand.

“Oh,” rejoined Gertrude, “I think you made me talk a great deal of nonsense.  And it depends,” she added, “upon what you call the great questions of life.  There are some things I care for.”

“Are they the things you talk about with your cousin?”

“You should not say things to me against my cousin, Mr. Brand,” said Gertrude.  “That is dishonorable.”

He listened to this respectfully; then he answered, with a little vibration of the voice, “I should be very sorry to do anything dishonorable.  But I don’t see why it is dishonorable to say that your cousin is frivolous.”

“Go and say it to himself!”

“I think he would admit it,” said Mr. Brand.  “That is the tone he would take.  He would not be ashamed of it.”

“Then I am not ashamed of it!” Gertrude declared.  “That is probably what I like him for.  I am frivolous myself.”

“You are trying, as I said just now, to lower yourself.”

“I am trying for once to be natural!” cried Gertrude passionately.  “I have been pretending, all my life; I have been dishonest; it is you that have made me so!” Mr. Brand stood gazing at her, and she went on, “Why should n’t I be frivolous, if I want?  One has a right to be frivolous, if it ’s one’s nature.  No, I don’t care for the great questions.  I care for pleasure—­for amusement.  Perhaps I am fond of wicked things; it is very possible!”

Mr. Brand remained staring; he was even a little pale, as if he had been frightened.  “I don’t think you know what you are saying!” he exclaimed.

“Perhaps not.  Perhaps I am talking nonsense.  But it is only with you that I talk nonsense.  I never do so with my cousin.”

“I will speak to you again, when you are less excited,” said Mr. Brand.

“I am always excited when you speak to me.  I must tell you that—­even if it prevents you altogether, in future.  Your speaking to me irritates me.  With my cousin it is very different.  That seems quiet and natural.”

He looked at her, and then he looked away, with a kind of helpless distress, at the dusky garden and the faint summer stars.  After which, suddenly turning back, “Gertrude, Gertrude!” he softly groaned.  “Am I really losing you?”

She was touched—­she was pained; but it had already occurred to her that she might do something better than say so.  It would not have alleviated her companion’s distress to perceive, just then, whence she had sympathetically borrowed this ingenuity.  “I am not sorry for you,” Gertrude said; “for in paying so much attention to me you are following a shadow—­you are wasting something precious.  There is something else you might have that you don’t look at—­something better than I am.  That is a reality!” And then, with intention, she looked at him and tried to smile a little.  He thought this smile of hers very strange; but she turned away and left him.