"Well, haven't you?" she demanded, as if surprised that a man so wealthy, so successful, could possibly lack anything he really desired.
"No," he replied slowly, "I haven't a home."
Still she appeared not to understand. Looking around at the magnificence all about her, she exclaimed:
"Why, all this is so beautiful—"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"This?" he echoed. "This isn't a home. It's merely the place in which I live—sometimes."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, light beginning to dawn upon her.
He went on:
"Furniture, pictures, tapestries, books—they don't make a home. Only a woman can do that—"
He stopped short and looked fixedly at her, a deep, searching look, as if he would read her very soul. Their eyes met, and instinctively she divined what his words implied and at whom they were directed. The moment she had dreaded had come at last. This man was about to ask her to marry him. Instead of exulting at this triumph, this conquest which would make her the envied wife of a millionaire, she was suddenly seized by a nervous dread. With pale face and trembling lips, she waited for him to speak, her heart throbbing so furiously that she could almost hear the beats. The time had come when she must make up her mind. She liked him, but she did not love him. She must either refuse this millionaire and voluntarily forego the life of independence and luxury such a marriage would mean, or she must be false to her most sacred convictions and marry a man she did not love. Most girls would not hesitate. It was an opportunity such as rarely presented itself. They would marry him first and find out if they cared for him afterwards. But she was not that kind of a girl. She believed in being true to her principles. She did not love him. She admired his strength, his masterful energy; she respected his success and achievements in life, but between such regard and real affection for the man himself there was a wide gulf. If she was to be true to the opinions she had always held concerning the marital relationship, she must be candid and honest with herself and with him, no matter what material advantages were to be gained by such a union. No happiness could come of a marriage that was not based on material regard or affection. They had known each other too short a time. He might think now that he cared for her very much, yet it might not be love which he felt for her at all, but only a horrible counterfeit, which goes by the same name and which, like a fierce flame, flares up suddenly and then dies down again. She was sufficiently sophisticated and world-wise to gauge at its true worth the violent attraction for the opposite sex which passion engenders in some men—an irresistible, uncontrollable desire, which must be satisfied at any cost, even at the price of their own happiness. Afterwards, when the novelty had worn off, he might be sorry and she would be very, very unhappy. Was it worth the sacrifice?