N hour has passed since the departure of Fisher; the crowd outside, after cheering each of the combatants down the street, has at last dispersed; the notice at the door informing all females of our patronage and assistance has been removed; the mission has become only a matter for the local historian, yet we two still linger over the office fire. Kate says little, but in her mind, it seems to me, there must be many thoughts. She has recovered her composure and reflections have had time to come. I, with surprising acumen and confidence, speculate on the nature of these. Disillusionment, the collapse of hopes, and the chilly thaw that leaves only the dripping and fast-vanishing remnants of ideals; these are surely what she feels. As I watch her, also saying little, her singular beauty grows upon me, and my heart goes out in sympathy for her troubles, till it is beating ominously fast. “Yes,” I say to myself, “this is more than Plato. I worship at the shrine of woman. No longer am I a sceptic!”
My sympathy can find no words; yet it must somehow take shape and reach this sorrowing divinity. I lay my hand upon hers and she—she lets me press her fingers silently, while a little smile begins to awake about the corners of her wilful mouth.
“Poor friend!” I exclaim, yet with gentle exclamation. “Yes, disillusionment is bitter!”
She gives her shoulders a shrug and her eye flashes into the fire.
“It is not that,” she replies. “It's being made a beastly fool of.”
For an instant I get a shock; but the spell of the moment and her beauty is too strong to be broken. It seems to me that I do but hear an evidence of her unconquerable spirit.
“You have a friend,” I whisper, “who can never think you a fool. To me you are the ideal, the queen of women. You may have lost your own ardent faith in woman through this luckless experiment, but you have converted me!”