“Marian,” said her father, slowly, “I think you are not only capable of a change, but ripe for it.  You inspire hope within me, and this fact carries with it the assurance that you also inspire respect.  No, my dear, you don’t know much about me; very few do.  No man with a nature like mine reveals himself where there is no desire for the knowledge, no understanding, no sympathy, or even where all these exist, unless prompted by his heart.  You know I am the last one in the world to put myself on exhibition.  But it would be a heavenly joy to me—­I might add surprise—­if my own daughter became like some of the women of whom I have read and dreamed; and I do read and dream of that in which you little imagine me to be interested.  To the world I am a stern, reticent, practical man I must be such in my calling.  In my home I have tried to be good-natured, affectionate, and philosophical.  I have seen little opportunity for anything more.  I do not complain, but merely state a fact which indicates the general lot.  We can rarely escape the law of heredity, however.  A poet and a metaphysician were among our German ancestry; therefore, leading from the business-like and matter-of-fact apartment of my mind, I have a private door by which I can slip away into the realm of speculation, romance, and ideals.  You perceive that I have no unnatural or shame-faced reticence about this habit.  I tell you of it the moment you show sufficient interest to warrant my speaking.”

“But, papa, I cannot hope to approach or even suggest the ideals of your fancy, dressed, no doubt, in mediaeval costume, and talking in blank verse.”

“That’s a superficial view, Marian.  Neither poetic or outlandish costume, nor the impossible language put into the mouths of their creations by the old bards, makes the unconventional woman.  There is, in truth, a conventionality about these very things, only it is antiquated.  It is not a woman’s dress or phraseology that makes her an ideal or an inspiration, but what she is herself.  No two leaves are alike on the same tree, but they are all enough alike to make but one impression.  Some are more shapely than others, and flutter from their support with a fairer and more conspicuous grace to the closely observant; but there is nothing independent about them, nothing to distinguish them especially from their companions.  They fulfil their general purpose, and fall away.  This simile applies to the majority of people.  Not only poetry and romance, but history also, gives us instances wherein men and women differ and break away from accepted types, some in absurd or grotesque ways, others through the sheer force of gifted selfishness, and others still in natural, noble development of graces of heart and mind.”

“Stop generalizing, and tell me, your silly, vain, flirtatious daughter, how I can be unconventional in this prosaic midday of civilization.”

“Prosaic day?  You are mistaken, Marian.  There never was a period like it Barbaric principles, older than Abraham, are now to triumph, or give place to a better and more enlightened human nature.  We almost at this moment hear the echoes of a strife in which specimens of the best manhood of the age are arrayed against one another in a struggle such as the world has never witnessed.  I have my part in the conflict, and it brings to me great responsibilities and dangers.”