I can tell you that men--those who are good for very much--come
often more slowly to their life-conclusions than you think; that
woman-_nature_ is a good deal to a man, and is meant to be, in
gradual bearing and influence, in the shaping of his perception, the
working of comparison, the coming to an understanding of his own
want, and the forming of his ideal,--yes, even in the mere general
pleasantness and gentle use of intercourse--before the _individual_
woman reveals herself, slowly or suddenly, as the one only central
need, and motive, and reward, and satisfying, that the world holds
and has kept for him. For him to gain or to lose: either way, to
have mightily to do with that soul-forging and shaping that the
Lord, in his handling of every man, is about.

That night they all came out together in the last train. Ray
Ingraham had gone in after dinner to make some purchases for her
mother, and had been to see some Chapel friends. Marion, as she came
in through the gate at the station, saw her far before, walking up
the long platform to the cars. She watched her enter the second in
the line, and hastened on, making up her mind instantly, like a
field general, to her own best manoeuvre. It was not exactly what
every girl would have done; and therein showed her generalship. She
would get into the same carriage, and take a seat with her. She knew
very well that Frank Sunderline would jump on at Pomantic, his day's
work just done. If he came and spoke to Ray he should speak also to
her. She did not risk trying _which_ he would come and speak to. It
should be, that joining them, and finding it pleasant, he should
not quite know which, after all, had most made it so. Different as
they were, she and Ray Ingraham toned and flavored each other, and
Marion knew it. They were like rose-color and gray; or like spice