Louis Seize_ sofa, "because I have a favor to ask."

"A favor of an enemy," said Marion, with an air of astonishment.

"Yes," he answered. "Like the Spartans I cannot fight when the omens are
unpropitious, so I wish to beg the favor of a truce and to ask that
during it the hostiles may dance the Patricians' cotillon together."

"A dance of hostiles would be a war dance, would it not?"

"War is a cruel word," he replied. "To me the dance is symbolic of the
highest sentiment."

"That is religion, is it not?" she asked, laughingly.

"No; a higher sentiment than religion is love."

"Of that there are many kinds."

"There is but one kind," he answered. "Other feelings may receive that
name, but they are base alloys of the pure sentiment."

"And what is this perfect love of which you seem to know so much?"

"It is the irresistible union of two similar natures."

"Why irresistible?" Marion asked.

"Because all organism is a union of limitless atoms, which are brought
together out of chaos by the attraction of similarity."

"That is a novel theory, but what has it to do with love?" she
questioned.

"Love is the idealization of that theory. Man and woman are the most
perfect blending of the atoms, and love is the transcendent union of
their two natures."

"And is there no creator?" Marion asked.

"None but love. Love is the symbolism of the creative power; love is
God."

Marion laughed; his theory was too absurd to be taken seriously, but
somehow it pleased her. "Have you felt this irresistible love power?"
she asked.

"I must first find my affinity," he replied evasively.

"Have you not met her yet?" said Marion, looking up with an air of
astonishment.

Duncan's eyes quickly caught her glance. "I think I have," he replied in
a way that was at once bold, insinuating, and tender. Marion turned her
head away quickly and a tinge of color came into her cheeks. It was
resentment, but somehow a sense of pleasure tingled amid the anger. "You
are an enigma," she said, ashamed at having colored. "I thought you were
a cynical speculator, but now you seem a fanciful dreamer."

"You must guess again," he replied. "I am neither a cynic nor a
visionist."

"What are you?" she asked abruptly.

"I am a disciple of love," he replied.

"Then I was right in calling you a dreamer, for love itself is a fantasm
inspired by hope or memory."

"You are a Philistine," he said softly. "Some day you may feel, and that
is to