a man to be treated the way that girl is treating you, and no one
knows it better than she does. She'll change in time, but just
now she thinks she wants to be independent. She's in love with
this picture-painting idea, and with the people she meets. It's
all new to her--the fuss they make over her and the titles, and
the way she is asked about. We know she can't paint. We know
they only give her commissions because she's so young and pretty,
and American. She amuses them, that's all. Well, that cannot
last; she'll find it out. She's too clever a girl, and she is
too fine a girl to be content with that long. Then--then she'll
come back to you. She feels now that she has both you and the
others, and she's making you wait: so wait and be cheerful.
She's worth waiting for; she's young, that's all. She'll see the
difference in time. But, in the meanwhile, it would hurry
matters a bit if she thought she had to choose between the new
friends and you."

"She could still keep her friends, and marry me," said Carroll;
"I have told her that a hundred times. She could still paint
miniatures and marry me. But she won't marry me."

"She won't marry you because she knows she can whenever she wants
to;" cried Marion. "Can't you see that? But if she thought you
were going to marry some one else now?"

"She would be the first to congratulate me," said Carroll. He
rose and walked to the fireplace, where he leaned with his arm on
the mantel. There was a photograph of Helen Cabot near his hand,
and he turned this toward him and stood for some time staring at
it. "My dear Marion," he said at last, "I've known Helen ever