"You mean these ideas of yours--learning as much as you can about the world, and then doing what you can to help other people to a better understanding."

"Yes," I said.

"And that--will fill your life."

"It ought to."

"I suppose it ought. I suppose--you find--it does."

"Don't you think it ought to fill my life?"

"I wondered if it did."

"But why shouldn't it?"

"It's so--so cold."

My questioning silence made her attempt to explain.

"One wants life more beautiful than that," she said. "One wants---- There are things one needs, things nearer one."

We became aware of a jangling at the janitor's bell. Our opportunity for talk was slipping away. And we were both still undecided, both blunderingly nervous and insecure. We were hurried into clumsy phrases that afterwards we would have given much to recall.

"But how could life be more beautiful," I said, "than when it serves big human ends?"

Her brows were knit. She seemed to be listening for the sound of the unlocking gate.

"But," she said, and plunged, "one wants to be loved. Surely one needs that."

"You see, for me--that's gone."

"Why should it be gone?"

"It is. One doesn't begin again. I mean--myself. _You_--can. You've never begun. Not when you've loved--loved really." I forced that on her.

I over emphasized. "It was real love, you know; the real thing.... I don't mean the mere imaginative love, blindfold love, but love that sees.... I want you to understand that. I loved--altogether...."

Across the lawn under its trim flowering-trees appeared Berwick loaded with little parcels, and manifestly eager to separate us, and the Furstin as manifestly putting on the drag.

"There's a sort of love," I hurried, "that doesn't renew itself ever.

Don't let yourself believe it does. Something else may come in its place, but that is different. It's youth,--a wonderful newness.... Look at that youngster. _He_ can love you like that. I've watched him. He does. You know he does...."

"Yes," she said, as hurriedly; "but then, you see, I don't love him."

"You don't?"

"I can't."

"But he's such a fresh clean human being----"

"That's not all," said Rachel. "That's not all.... You don't understand."

The two drew near. "It is so hard to explain," she said. "Things that one hardly sees for oneself. Sometimes it seems one cannot help oneself.

You can't choose. You are taken...." She seemed about to say something more, and stopped and bit her lip.

In another moment I was standing up, and the Furstin was calling to us across ten feet of s.p.a.ce. "Such amoosin' little toyshops. We've got a heap of things. Just look at him!"

He smiled over his load with anxious eyes upon our faces.

"Ten separate parcels," he said, appealing for Rachel's sympathy. "I'm doing my best not to complain."

And rather adroitly he contrived to let two of them slip, and captured Rachel to a.s.sist him.

He didn't relinquish her again.

-- 5

The Furstin and I followed them along the broad, pleasant, tree-lined street towards the railway station.

"A boy of that age ought not to marry a girl of that age," said the Furstin, breaking a silence.

I didn't answer.

"Well?" she said, domineering.

"My dear cousin," I said, "I know all that you have in your mind. I admit--I covet her. You can't make me more jealous than I am. She's clean and sweet--it is marvellous how the G.o.d of the rest of the world can have made a thing so brave and honest and wonderful. She's better than flowers. But I think I'm going away to-night, nevertheless."

"You don't mean you're going to carry chivalry to the point of giving that boy a chance--for he hasn't one while you're about."

"No. You see--I want to give Rachel a chance. You know as well as I do--the things in my mind."

"That you've got to forget."

"That I don't forget."

"That you're bound in honor to forget. And who could help you better?"

"I'm going," I said and then, wrathfully, "If you think I want to use Rachel as a sort of dressing--for my old sores----"

I left the sentence unfinished.

"Oh _nonsense_!" cried the Furstin, and wouldn't speak to me again until we got to that entirely Teutonic "art" station that is not the least among the sights of Worms.

"Sores, indeed!" said the Furstin presently, as we walked up the end of the platform.

"There's nothing," said the Furstin, with an unusual note of petulance, "she'd like better."

"I can't think what men are coming to," she went on. "You're in love with her, or you wouldn't be so generous. And she's head over heels with you. And here you are! I'll give you one more chance----"