e said at length. "And there is no
compromise?"

"None," he answered.

And she smiled suddenly at the monosyllable reply. She had had to deal
with men of no compromise more than the majority of villa-dwelling women
have the opportunity of doing, and she knew, perhaps, that such are the
backbone of human nature.

"Ah!" she said, with a quick sigh, as she turned and looked down the
length of the long, lamp-lit room. "You are strong--you are strong for
two."

He shook his head in negation, for he knew that hers was that fine,
steely strength of women which endures a strain all through a lifetime
of which the world knows nothing. Then, acting up to her own creed of
seeking always the clear understanding, she returned to the point they
had left untouched.

"And if two people had between them," she suggested, wonderingly, "that
with which you say they might be content, if they had it, and were sure
they had it, and had with it a perfect trust in each other, but knew
that they could never have more, could they be happy?"

"They could be happier than nearly everybody else in the world," he
answered.

"And if they had to go on all their lives--and if one lived in London
and the other in Warsaw--Warsaw?"

"They could still be happy."

"If she--alone at one end of Europe--" asked Wanda, with her
worldly-wise searching into detail--"if she saw slowly vanishing those
small attractions which belong to youth, for which he might care,
perhaps?"

"She could still be happy."

"And he? If he experienced a check in his career, or had some
misfortune, and felt lonely and disappointed--and there was no one near
to--to take care of him?"

"He could still be happy--if--"

"If--?"

"If he knew that she loved him," replied Cartoner, slowly.

Wanda turned and looked at him with an odd little laugh, and there were
tears in her eyes.

"Oh! you may know that," she said, suddenly descending from the
uncertain heights of generality. "You may be quite sure of that. If that
is what you want."

"That is what I want."

As he spoke he took her hand and slowly raised it to his lips. She
looked at his bent head, and when her eyes rested on the gray hairs
at his temples, they lighted suddenly with a gleam which was strangely
protecting and dimly maternal.

"I want you to go away from Warsaw," she said. "I would rather you went
even if you say--that you are afraid to stay."

"I cannot say that."

"Besides," she added, with her h