temperament, you would be the most irresistible creature alive. For
see, my dear child, as it is you stir neither tenderness nor desire;
you are remote and perfect, and faintly wistful. I can't imagine
being human or even comfortable with you about. Then, too, you have
too much wisdom."

"She is frightful," Pansy agreed; "she's never upset nor her hair a
sight; and, above all else, Linda won't tell you a thing."

"Some day," Judith informed them from the rippling whisper of the
piano, "she will be magnificently loved."

"Certainly," the man continued; "but what will Linda, Linda Condon,
give in return?"

"It's a mistake to give much," Linda said evenly.

"No, no, no!" Judith cried. "Give everything; spend every feeling,
every nerve."

"You are remarkable, of course; almost no women have the courage of
their emotions." His name was Reynold Chase, a long thin grave young
man in a dinner coat, who wrote brilliant and successful comedies.
"Yet Linda isn't parsimonious." He turned to her. "Just what are
you? What do you think of love?"

"I haven't thought about it much," she replied slowly. "I'm not sure
that I know what it means. At least it hasn't anything to do with
marriage--"