about quite a number of literary masterpieces, and she ingenuously gave utterance to her meek and joyful views of life, the privileges she enjoyed, and the inspiration which she derived from the ethical views of Robert Browning.  Howard found himself wondering why it was all so dreadfully uninteresting and devoid of charm; he asked himself whether, if the little spinster had been personally more attractive, her optimistic chirpings would have seemed to have more significance.  Miss Merry had a perfectly definite view of life, and she made life into a distinct success; she was a happy woman, sustained by an abundance of meek enthusiasm.  She accepted everything that happened to her, whether good or evil, with the same eager interest.  Suffering, according to Miss Merry, had an educative quality, and life was haunted for her by echoes of excellent literature, accurately remembered.  But Howard had a feeling that one must not swallow life quite so uncritically, that there ought somehow to be more discrimination; and Miss Merry’s eager adoration of everything and everybody reduced him to a flatness which he found it difficult to conceal.  He could not think what was the matter with her views.  She revelled in what she called problems, and the more incomplete that anything appeared, the more certain was Miss Merry of ultimate perfection.  There did not seem any room for humanity, with its varying moods, in her outlook; and yet Howard had the grace to be ashamed of his own sullen dreariness, which certainly did not appear to lend any dignity to life.  But he had not the heart to spoil the little lady’s pleasure, and engaged in small talk upon moderately abstract topics with courteous industry.  “Of course,” said his companion confidingly, “all that I do is on a very small scale, but I think that the quality of it is what matters—­the quality of one’s ideal, I mean.”  Howard murmuringly assented.  “I have sometimes even wished,” she went on, “that I had some real trouble of my own—­that seems foolish to you, no doubt, because my life is such an easy one—­but I do feel that my happiness rather cuts me off from other people—­ and I don’t want to be cut off from other people; I desire to know how and why they suffer.”

“Ah,” said Howard, “while you feel that, it is all right; but the worst of real suffering is, I believe, that it is apt to be entirely dreary—­it is not at all romantic, as it seems from the outside; indeed it is the loss of all that sense of excitement which makes suffering what it is.  But really I have no right to speak either, for I have had a very happy life too.”

Miss Merry heard him moist-eyed and intent.  “Yes, I am sure that is true!” she said.  “I suppose we all have just as much as we can use—­ just as much as it is good for us to have.”

They found that the others had arrived, and were unpacking the luncheon.  Maud greeted Howard with a shy expectancy; but the sight of her, slender and fresh in her rough walking-dress, renewed his strange pangs.  What did he want of her, he asked himself; what was this mysterious and unmanning sense, that made him conscious of every movement and every word of the girl?  Why could he not meet her in a cheerful, friendly, simple way, and make the most of her enchanting company?