His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover.  But he dismissed that because then she would ask her lover and not him all these things.  Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness:  home bored her.  He could quite understand the daughter of Mr. Stanley being bored and feeling limited.  But was that enough?  Dim, formless suspicions of something more vital wandered about his mind.  Was the young lady impatient for experience?  Was she adventurous?  As a man of the world he did not think it becoming to accept maidenly calm as anything more than a mask.  Warm life was behind that always, even if it slept.  If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected....

He had diverged only a little from the truth when he said that his chief interest in life was women.  It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind.  His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—­he prided himself—­of falling in love.  His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs.  Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty.  He could not understand how men could live ignoring this one predominant interest, this wonderful research into personality and the possibilities of pleasing, these complex, fascinating expeditions that began in interest and mounted to the supremest, most passionate intimacy.  All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it.

So while he talked to this girl of work and freedom, his slightly protuberant eyes were noting the gracious balance of her limbs and body across the gate, the fine lines of her chin and neck.  Her grave fine face, her warm clear complexion, had already aroused his curiosity as he had gone to and fro in Morningside Park, and here suddenly he was near to her and talking freely and intimately.  He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account.

She was pleased and a little flattered by his interest and sympathy.  She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light.  He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest.

She, perhaps, displayed herself rather consciously as a fine person unduly limited.  She even touched lightly on her father’s unreasonableness.

“I wonder,” said Ramage, “that more girls don’t think as you do and want to strike out in the world.”

And then he speculated.  “I wonder if you will?”