Marna turned from her to the fire.
"Kate," she said, "I don't know what you call it, but when I looked in his eyes I felt as if I had just seen the world for the first time. I have liked to live, of course, and to study, and it was tremendously stirring, singing there before all those people. But, honestly, I can see it would lead nowhere. A few years of faint celebrity, an empty heart, a homeless life--then weariness. Oh, I know it. I have a trick of seeing things. Oh, he's the man for me, Kate. I realized it the moment he pointed it out. We could not be mistaken. I shall love him forever and he'll love me just as I love him."
"By the way," said Kate, "who is he? Someone from the opera company?"
"Who is he? Why, he's George Fitzgerald, of course."
"Mrs. Dennison's nephew?"
"Certainly. Who else should it be?"
"Why, he's a pleasant enough young man--very cheerful and quite intelligent--but, Marna--"
Marna leaped to her feet.
"You're not in a position to pass judgment upon him, Kate. How can you know what a wonderful soul he has? Why, there's no one so brave, or so humble, or so sweet, or with such a worship for women--"
"For you, you mean."