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“What a poor memory you have—for what I say,” reproached he. “Haven’t I always told you I never should?”

“I remember perfectly,” replied she. “But I’ve always answered that you can’t be sure.”

“Oh, yes, I can,” said he, with irritating, challenging confidence. “As I said, I’m already in love. And I’m the most constant person you ever knew.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” said she, looking shrewdly at him. And the gray eyes, with all the softness of sleep driven from them, were now keen rather than kind. “You are young, for all your serious look; and you are romantic, I suppose. Artists always are. You will fall in love.”

“Not impossible,” conceded he.

“And marry,” concluded she, with the air of having proved her case.

“If I loved a woman I wouldn’t marry her. If I didn’t love her I couldn’t.”

“That sounds like a puzzle—a—a conundrum. I give it up. What’s the answer?”

“I’ve lived in France several years,” said he, “and I’ve learned the sound sense back of their marriage system. Love and marriage have nothing to do with each other.”