Nick's heart
contracted with pity and perplexity.

"Oh, Coral--it's not decided?"

She scrutinized him for a last penetrating moment; then she looked away.
"I'm never long deciding."

He hesitated, choking with contradictory impulses, and afraid to
formulate any, lest they should either mislead or pain her.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he questioned lamely; and instantly perceived
his blunder.

She sat down, and looked up at him under brooding lashes--had he ever
noticed the thickness of her lashes before?

"Would it have made any difference if I had told you?"

"Any difference--?"

"Sit down by me," she commanded. "I want to talk to you. You can say
now whatever you might have said sooner. I'm not married yet: I'm still
free."

"You haven't given your answer?"

"It doesn't matter if I have."

The retort frightened him with the glimpse of what she still expected of
him, and what he was still so unable to give.

"That means you've said yes?" he pursued, to gain time.

"Yes or no--it doesn't matter. I had to say something. What I want is
your advice."

"At the eleventh hour?"

"Or the twelfth." She paused. "What shall I do?" she questioned, with a
sudden accent of helplessness.

He looked at her as helplessly. He could not say: "Ask yourself--ask
your parents." Her next word would sweep away such frail hypocrisies.
Her "What shall I do?" meant "What are you going to do?" and he knew it,
and knew that she knew it.

"I'm a bad person to give any one matrimonial advice," he began, with a
strained smile; "but I had such a different vision for you."

"What kind of a vision?" She was merciless.

"Merely what people call happiness, dear."

"'People call'--you see you don't believe in it yourself! Well, neither
do I--in that form, at any rate."

He considered. "I believe in trying for it--even if the trying's the
best of it."

"Well, I've tried, and failed. And I'm twenty-two, and I never was
young. I suppose I haven't enough imagination." She drew a deep breath.
"Now I want something different." She appeared to search for the word.
"I want to be--prominent," she declared.

"Prominent?"

She reddened swarthily. "Oh, you smile--you think it's ridiculous: it
doesn't seem worth while to you. That's because you've always had all
those things. But I haven't. I know what father pushed up from, and
I want to push up as high again--higher. No, I haven't got much
imagination. I've always liked Facts. And I