means to put, to all of which her answers are received without
comment, and mentally noted down.

He neither repeats himself, nor presses a point, nor leaves out
anything on his mental list, nor allows any remark to lead away
from it.

He has also certain things he means to say, which he will say, as
he asks his questions, deliberately, one after the other; and then,
when he has heard and said all he intends, he will terminate the
conversation as decisively as he began it and go. The girl feels
all this, for her brain is as clear and keen as the glance of her
eyes.

She knows that he is testing her: that she stands upon trial before
him.

She has nothing to hide: only, that too great love and devotion,
that seems to swell and swell irrepressibly within her, and would
pour itself out in words to him, but that his tone, his manner,
his look keep it back absolutely, as a firm hand holds down the
rising cork upon the exuberant wine. And now, at this sentence
of his, her words fail her. They are strangers practically, that
is conventionally--quite strangers, she remembers confusedly--but
for this secret bond of passion, knit up between them, which both
can feel but both ignore.

The natural male in him, and the natural female in her, are
already, as it were, familiar, but the fashionable man and girl are
strangers still.

Then, now, how is she to say what she wishes to him? How can she
talk with this mere acquaintance upon this subject? The very word
"children" seems to scorch her lips. At the same time, familiarity
with him seems natural and unnatural; terrible, and yet simple.

Then, too, what are his views?

Will her next words shock him inexpressibly?

In her passionate, excitable brain, inflamed with love for the man,
the idea of maternity can merely present itself like an unwelcome,
grey-clad Quaker at a banquet.

She hesitates, choosing her words. She knows so little of the man
in front of her. His clothes, she sees, are of the newest cut, but
his notions may not be.

At last her soft, weak, timid voice breaks the pause.

"Do you think it necessary to have very large families?"

"No, I don't," he answers instantly with the energy and alacrity of
one who is glad to express his opinion. "No, I don't, not at all."

The girl's suspended breath is drawn again. Unlike himself in his
queries she presses her point home.

"Don't you think those marriages are the happiest where there are
no children?"

"