you like--someone you like really rather a lot, someone you're in
love with, if I may express myself so baldly."

"But that's just where the question comes in," Mary exclaimed.
"I'm not in love with anybody."

"Then, if I were you, I should wait till you are."

"But I can't go on dreaming night after night that I'm falling
down a well. It's too dangerous."

"Well, if it really is TOO dangerous, then of course you must do
something about it; you must find somebody else."

"But who?" A thoughtful frown puckered Mary's brow. "It must be
somebody intelligent, somebody with intellectual interests that I
can share. And it must be somebody with a proper respect for
women, somebody who's prepared to talk seriously about his work
and his ideas and about my work and my ideas. It isn't, as you
see, at all easy to find the right person."

"Well" said Anne, "there are three unattached and intelligent men
in the house at the present time. There's Mr. Scogan, to begin
with; but perhaps he's rather too much of a genuine antique. And
there are Gombauld and Denis. Shall we say that the choice is
limited to the last two?"

Mary nodded. "I think we had better," she said, and then
hesitated, with a certain air of embarrassment.