’That is putting it in a matter-of-fact way —­ or you think so.  I see things rather differently.  In one sense, I care very much indeed for everything that really makes a part of your life.  And simply because I care very much about you yourself.  I don’t know you; who knows any other human being?  But I have formed an idea of you, and an idea that has great power over my thoughts, wishes, purposes —­ everything.  It has made me say what I thought I should never say to any woman —­ and makes me feel glad that I have said it, and full of hope.’

Alma drew in her breath and smiled faintly.  Still she did not look at him.

‘And of course I have formed an idea of you.’

‘Will you sketch the outline and let me correct it?’

‘You think I am pretty sure to be wrong?’ she asked, raising her eyes and regarding him for a moment with anxiety.

’I should have said “complete” it.  I hope I have never shown myself to you in an altogether false light.’

‘That is the one thing I have felt sure about,’ said Alma, slowly and thoughtfully.  ’You have always seemed the same.  You don’t change with circumstances —­ as people generally do.’

Harvey had a word on his lips, but checked it, and merely gazed at her till her eyes again encountered his.  Then Alma smiled more naturally.

’There was something you didn’t speak of in your letter.  What kind of life do you look forward to?’

‘I’m not sure that I understand.  My practical aims —­ you mean?’

‘Yes,’ she faltered, with embarrassment.

’Why, I’m afraid I have none.  I mentioned the facts of my position, and I said that I couldn’t hope for its improvement ——­’

’No, no, no!  You misunderstand me.  I am not thinking about money.  I hate the word, and wish I might never hear it again!’ She spoke with impetuosity.  ’I meant —­ how and where do you wish to live?  What thoughts had you about the future?’

’None very definite, I confess.  And chiefly because, if what I desired came to pass, I thought of everything as depending upon you.  I have no place in the world.  I have no relatives nearer than cousins.  Of late years I have been growing rather bookish, and rather fond of quietness —­ but of course that resulted from circumstances.  When a man offers marriage, of course he usually says:  My life is this and this; will you enter into it, and share it with me?  I don’t wish to say anything of the kind.  My life may take all sorts of forms; when I ask you to share it, I ask you to share liberty, not restraint.’

‘A gipsy life?’ she asked, half playfully.

‘Is your inclination to that?’

Alma shook her head.

‘No, I am tired of homelessness. —­ And,’ she added as if on an impulse, ‘I am tired of London.’

‘Then we agree.  I, too, am tired of both.’

Her manner altered; she straightened herself, and spoke with more self-possession.