ness," I answered, hoping to evade the direct question by a
sententious phrase.

"I will not let you off so easily. You shall answer my question," he
said. He looked full at me with a deep searching gaze that seemed hardly
warranted by the lightness of the argument. I hesitated, and he
impatiently leaned forward, uncrossing his legs and clasping his hands
over one knee to bring himself nearer to me.

"Pleasure or happiness?" he repeated, "which is it to be?"

A sudden light flashed over my obscured intellect.

"Both," I answered. "Could you see the ideal woman as I would fain paint
her to you, you would understand me better. The pleasure you enjoy in
the society of a noble and beautiful woman should be but the refreshment
by the wayside as you journey through life together. The day will come
when she will be beautiful no longer, only noble and good, and true to
you as to herself; and then, if pleasure has been to you what it should
be, you will find that in the happiness attained it is no longer
counted, or needed, or thought of. It will have served its end, as the
crib holds the ship in her place while she is building; and when your
white-winged vessel has smoothly glided off into the great ocean of
happiness, the crib and the stocks and the artificial supports will fall
to pieces and be forgotten for ever. Yet have they had a purpose, and
have borne a very important part in the life of your ship."

Having heard me attentively till I had finished, Isaacs relaxed his hold
on his knee and threw himself back on the cushions, as if to entrench
himself for a better fight. I had made an impression on him, but he was
not the man to own it easily. Presumably to gain time, he called for
hookahs and sherbet, and though the servants moved noiselessly in
preparing them, their presence was an interruption.

When we were settled again he had taken a nearly upright position on the
couch, and as he pulled at the long tube his face assumed that stolid
look of Oriental indifference which is the most discouraging shower-bath
to the persuasive powers. I had really no interest in converting him to
my own point of view about women. Honestly, was it my own point of view
at all? Would anything under heaven induce me, Paul Griggs, rich, or
poor, or comfortably off, to marry any one--Miss Westonhaugh, for
instance? Probably not. But then my preference for single blessedness
did not prevent me from believing that women have souls. That morn