ld be no nonsense; love would not enter into the bargain;
but there would be the fragrance of perfect understanding. That he
was fifty-two and she was twenty-four no longer mattered. No more
loneliness, no more genteel poverty; for such benefits she was ready to
pay the score in full. A man she was genuinely fond of, a man she could
look up to, always depend upon.

Was there such a thing as perfect love? She had her doubts. She reasoned
that love was what a body decided was love, the psychological moment
when the physical attraction became irresistible. Who could tell before
the fact which was the true and which the false? Lived there a woman,
herself excepted, who had not hesitated between two men--a man who had
not doddered between two women--for better or for worse? What did the
average woman know of the man, the average man know of the woman--until
afterward? To stake all upon a guess!

She knew Cutty. Under her own eyes he had passed through certain proving
fires. There would be no guessing the manner of man he was. He was
fifty-two; that is to say, the grand passion had come and gone. There
would be mutual affection and comradeship.

True, she had her dreams; but she could lay them away without any
particular regret. She had never been touched by the fire of passion.
Let it go. But she did know what perfect comradeship was, and she would
grasp it and never loose her hold. Something out of life.

"A narrow squeak, Miss Conover," said Berumi, breaking the long silence.

"A miss is as good as a mile," replied Kitty, not at all grateful for
the interruption.

"We've done everything we could to protect you. If you can't see
now--why, the jig is up. A chain is as strong as its weakest link. And
in a game like this a woman is always the weakest link."

"You're quite a philosopher."

"I have reason to be. I'm married."

"Am I expected to laugh?"

"Miss Conover, you're a wonder. You come through these affairs with a
smile, when you ought to have hysterics. I'll bet a doughnut that when
you see a mouse you go and get it a piece of cheese."

"Do you want the truth? Well, I'll tell it to you. You have all kept me
on the outer edge of this affair, and I've been trying to find out why.
I have the reportorial instinct, as they say. I inherited it from my
father. You put a strange weapon in my hands, you tell me it is deadly,
but you don't tell me which end is deadly. Do you know who this Russian
is?"

"Honestly, I