t do you mean?'

He put on his glasses and looked at her carefully.

'Does it not seem to you a rather--curious thing for a young girl of
your age to go away with a young man of the age of Mr Ferdinand White?'

'Good gracious me! One would think I was doing something that had never
been done before!'

'Oh, many a young man has gone travelling with a young woman, but they
generally start by a night train, and arrive at the station in different
cabs.'

'But surely, Popper, you don't mean to insinuate--Mr White and I are
going to Holland as friends.'

'Friends!'

He looked at her more curiously than ever.

'One can have a man friend as well as a girl friend,' she continued.
'And I don't see why he shouldn't be just as good a friend.'

'The danger is that he become too good.'

'You misunderstand me entirely, Popper; we are friends, and nothing but
friends.'

'You are entirely off your head, my child.'

'Ah! you're a Frenchman, you can't understand these things. We are
different.'

'I imagine that you are human beings, even though England and America
respectively had the intense good fortune of seeing your birth.'

'We're human beings--and more than that, we're nineteenth century human
beings. Love is not everything. It is a part of one--perhaps the lower
part--an accessory to man's life, needful for the continuation of the
species.'

'You use such difficult words, my dear.'

'There is something higher and nobler and purer than love--there is
friendship. Ferdinand White is my friend. I have the amplest confidence
in him. I am certain that no unclean thought has ever entered his head.'

She spoke quite heatedly, and as she flushed up, the old painter thought
her astonishingly handsome. Then she added as an afterthought,--

'We despise passion. Passion is ugly; it is grotesque.'

The painter stroked his imperial and faintly smiled.

'My child, you must permit me to tell you that you are foolish. Passion
is the most lovely thing in the world; without it we should not paint
beautiful pictures. It is passion that makes a woman of a society lady;
it is passion that makes a man even of--an art critic.'

'We do not want it,' she said. 'We worship Venus Urania. We are all
spirit and soul.'

'You have been reading Plato; soon you will read Zola.'

He smiled again, and lit another cigarette.

'Do you disapprove of my going?' she asked after a little silence.

He paused and looked at her. Then he shrugged