"Do you know, Miss Morris," said Carlton, seriously, "that I
believe I'm not able to care for a woman as other men do--at
least as some men do; it's just lacking in me, and always will
be lacking. It's like an ear for music; if you haven't got
it, if it isn't born in you, you'll never have it. It's not a
thing you can cultivate, and I feel that it's not only a
misfortune, but a fault. Now I honestly believe that I care
more for the Princess Aline, whom I have never met, than many
other men could care for her if they knew her well; but what
they feel would last, and I have doubts from past experience
that what I feel would. I don't doubt it while it exists, but
it never does exist long, and so I am afraid it is going to be
with me to the end of the chapter." He paused for a moment,
but the girl did not answer. "I am speaking in earnest now,"
he added, with a rueful laugh.

"I see you are," she replied, briefly. She seemed to be
considering his condition as he had described it to her, and
he did not interrupt her. From below them came the notes of
the waltz the gypsies played. It was full of the undercurrent
of sadness that a waltz should have, and filled out what
Carlton said as the music from the orchestra in a theatre
heightens the effect without interrupting the words of the
actor on the stage.

"It is strange," said Miss Morris. "I should have thought you
were a man who would care very much and in just the right way.
But I don't believe really--I'm sorry, but I don't believe you
do know what love means at all."