"Why, as to that," I answered, "a philosopher may love, but not for the mere sake of loving."
"For whose sake then, I wonder?"
"A man who esteems trifles for their own sake is a trifler, but one who values them, rather, for the deductions that may be drawn from them—he is a philosopher."
Charmian rose, and stood looking down at me very strangely.
"So!" said she, throwing back her head, "so, throned in lofty might, superior Mr. Smith thinks Love a trifle, does he?"
"My name is Vibart, as I think you know," said I, stung by her look or her tone, or both.
"Yes," she answered, seeming to look down at me from an immeasurable attitude, "but I prefer to know him, just now, as Superior Mr. Smith."
"As you will," said I, and rose also; but, even then, though she had to look up to me, I had the same inward conviction that her eyes were regarding me from a great height; wherefore I, attempted—quite unsuccessfully to light my pipe.
And after I had struck flint and steel vainly, perhaps a dozen times, Charmian took the box from me, and, igniting the tinder, held it for me while I lighted my tobacco.
"Thank you!" said I, as she returned the box, and then I saw that she was smiling. "Talking of Charmian Brown—" I began.