letter and tell her. But of course it would be absurd; she would
never acknowledge that she had believed anything, and she would
think I was impertinent."

"I don't believe she would do anything of the sort," Alice answered.
"At least, not if she meant what she said to me. She was talking
about people one met in Society, and how tiresome and conventional
it all was. 'No one ever speaks the truth or deals frankly with
you,' she said. 'All the men spend their time in paying you
compliments about your looks. They think that is all a woman cares
about. The more I come to know them, the less I think of them.'"

"That's just it," said Montague. "One cannot feel comfortable
knowing a girl in her position. Her father is powerful, and some day
she will be enormously rich herself; and the people who gather about
her are seeking to make use of her. I was interested in her when I
first met her. But when I learned more about the world in which she
lives, I shrank from even talking to her."

"But that is rather unfair to her," said Alice. "Suppose all decent
people felt that way. And she is really quite easy to know. She told
me about some charities she is interested in. She goes down into the
slums, on the East Side, and teaches poor children. It seemed to me
a wonderfully daring sort of thing, but she laughed when I said so.
She says those people are just the same as other people, when you
come to know them; you get used to their ways, and then it does not
seem so terrible and far off."

"I imagine it would be so," said Montague, with a smile.