"Indeed, I'm not!" retorted Shotwell, with emphasis. "Palla Dumont has a mind of her own,--although you don't seem to think so,----"

"I think she has a _will_ of her own," interrupted the other, amused.

"Glad you concede her _some_ mental attribute."

"I do indeed! I never intimated that she is weak-willed. She isn't.

Other and stronger wills don't dominate hers. Perhaps it would be better if they did sometimes....

"But no; Palla Dumont arrives headlong at her own red-hot decisions.

It is not the will of others that influences her; it is their indecision, their lack of willpower, their very weakness that seems to stimulate and vitally influence such a character as Palla Dumont's--"

"--Such a _character_?" repeated Shotwell. "What sort of character do you suppose hers to be, anyway? Between you and your psychological and pathological surmises you don't seem to leave her any character at all."

"I'm telling you," said Estridge, "that the girl is influenced not by the will or desire of others, but by their necessities, their distress, their needs.... Or what she believes to be their needs....

And you may decide for yourself how valuable are the conclusions of an impulsive, wilful, fearless, generous girl whose heart regulates her thinking apparatus."

"According to you, then, she is practically mindless," remarked Shotwell, ironically. "You medically minded gentlemen are wonders!--all of you."

"You don't get me. The girl is clever and intelligent when her acc.u.mulated emotions let her brain alone. When they interfere, her logic goes to smash and she does exaggerated things--like trying to sacrifice herself for her friend in the convent there--like tearing off the white garments of her novitiate and denouncing deity!--like embracing an extravagant pantheistic religion of her own manufacture and proclaiming that the Law of Love is the only law!

"I've heard the young lady on the subject, Jim. And, medically minded or not, I'm medically on to her."

They walked on together in silence for nearly a whole block; then Estridge said bluntly:

"She'd be better balanced if she were married and had a few children.

Such types usually are."

Shotwell made no comment. Presently the other spoke again:

"The Law of Love! What rot! That's sheer hysteria. Follow that law and you become a saint, perhaps, perhaps a devil. Love sacred, love profane--both, when exaggerated, arise from the same physical condition--too much pep for the mind to distribute.

"What happens? Exaggerations. Extravagances. Hallucinations.

Mysticisms.

"What results? Nuns. Hermits. Yogis. Exhorters. Fanatics. Cranks.

_Sometimes._ For, from the same chrysalis, Jim, may emerge either a vestal, or one of those tragic characters who, swayed by this same remarkable Law of Love, may give ... and burn on--slowly--from the first lover to the next. And so, into darkness."

He added, smiling: "The only law of love subscribed to by sane people is framed by a balanced brain and interpreted by common sense. Those who obey any other code go a-glimmering, saint and sinner, novice and Magdalene alike.... This is your street, I believe."

They shook hands cordially.

After dining _en famille_, Shotwell Junior considered the various diversions offered to young business men after a day of labour.

There were theatres; there was the Club de Vingt and similar agreeable asylums; there was also a telephone to ring, and unpremeditated suggestions to make to friends, either masculine or feminine.

Or he could read and improve his mind. Or go to Carnegie Hall with his father and mother and listen to music of sorts.... Or--he could call up Elorn Sharrow.

He couldn't decide; and his parents presently derided him and departed music-ward without him. He read an evening paper, discarded it, poked the fire, stood before it, jingled a few coins and keys in his pocket, still undecided, still rather disinclined to any exertion, even as far as the club.

"I wonder," he thought, "what that girl is doing now. I've a mind to call her up."

He seemed to know whom he meant by "that girl." Also, it was evident that he did not mean Elorn Sharrow; for it was not her number he called and presently got.

"Miss Dumont?"

"Yes? Who is it?"

"It's a mere n.o.body. It's only your broker----"

"_What!!_"

"Your real-estate broker----"

"Mr. Shotwell! How absurd of you!"

"Why absurd?"

"Because I don't think of you merely as a real-estate broker."

"Then you _do_ sometimes think of me?"

"What power of deduction! What logic! You seem to be in a particularly frivolous frame of mind. Are you?"

"No; I'm in a bad one."

"Why?"

"Because I haven't a bally thing to do this evening."

"That's silly!--with the entire town outside.... I'm glad you called me up, anyway. I'm tired and bored and exceedingly cross."

"What are you doing, Miss Dumont?"

"Absolutely and idiotically nothing. I'm merely sitting here on the only chair in this scantily furnished house, and trying to plan what sort of carpets, draperies and furniture to buy. Can you imagine the scene?"

"I thought you had some things."

"I haven't anything! Not even a decent mirror. I stand on the slippery edge of a bath tub to get a complete view of myself. And then it's only by sections."

"That's tragic. Have you a cook?"

"I have. But no dining room table. I eat from a tray on a packing case."

"Have you a waitress?"

"Yes, and a maid. They're comfortable. I bought their furniture immediately and also the batterie-de-cuisine. It's only I who slink about like a perplexed cat, from one empty room to another, in search of familiar comforts.... But I bought a sofa to-day.