t distinguished
him from the rest of their admirers in the eyes of every girl with any
pretensions to beauty or style; but he was undeniably considered at that
time, in the circle of my acquaintance, as the most fascinating man in
society. He was commonly spoken of as interesting, and there was a vague
impression that he was lacking in constancy. It was not unnatural
therefore that I should be flattered at his singling me out for
assiduous attentions, especially when he possessed the art of letting me
understand in a quiet, gentlemanly fashion, and without the aid of
garish compliments, that I was the only girl in the room for whom he
cared a straw. I did not believe him, but I was pleased, for that was
the way in which I wished to be wooed by the one whom I wished to
believe.

So in course of time I became willing to retire with him into
conservatories and ante-rooms to avoid interruption. I was still fond of
dancing, but I had recovered from the frenzy which blinded me to
everything but the rapture of the moment. I liked to hear Mr. Dale talk,
and without an affinity of ideas our intimacy must have died a natural
death. But we found a common ground of sympathy in our revolt against
the subserviency in modern life of romance to matter-of-fact
considerations. He harped upon this string, and awoke a corresponding
chord in my breast. His ideas were a correlation of the dreams of my
girlhood. I felt that I was understood. There was such a thing as the
love I had imagined; Mr. Dale had pondered over it, fathomed it, and
could talk about it. Not that I considered myself in love with him, or
him with me. We simply were friends,--that was all. But existence seemed
nobler when illumined by his theories.

He declared that the Puritan fathers and their descendants lacked the
power of expression. People were afraid to acknowledge they loved. The
ardor that distinguished the passion of other races and made it
beautiful was nowhere to be found, for if it ever dared to manifest
itself the breath of ridicule wilted its growth. The expensive "floral
offering" was more prized than the single dewy bud of the true lover,
and the zeal and sentiment of chivalry had yielded to the blighting
prose of a commercial age.

My Aunt Helen was the first of the family to comment on my intimacy with
him.

"What does your friend Mr. Dale do?" she asked one day.

"Do?"

"Yes. I mean what is his business down town?"

"I don't know, Aunt Helen,"