"But you'll change yet. A score of drawn battles do not discourage me of ultimate victory."
"Nor me," she returned quietly.
Their skirmish was interrupted by the entrance of a footman. Helen took the card from the tray and glanced at it.
"Show her into the library and tell her I'll join her soon." She turned back to Mr. Allen. "Perhaps you remember her—she was a maid at your house a little while—a Miss Morgan."
"I remember her, yes," he said indifferently.
His face clouded; he made an effort at lightness, but his words were sharp. "Where, oh where, are you going to stop, Helen! You are at St. Christopher's twice a week, not counting frequent extra visits. Two days ago, so you've just told me, that Mr. Aldrich was here. To-day, it's this girl. And the week's not yet over! Don't you think there might at least be a little moderation?"
"You mean," she returned quietly, "that, if we were married, you would not want these friends of mine to come to your house?"
"I should not! And I wish I knew of some way to snap off all that side of your life!"
She regarded him meditatively. "Since there's so much about me you don't approve of, I've often wondered why you want to marry me. Love is not a reason, for you don't love me."
The answers ran through his head: He admired her; she had beauty, brains, social standing, social tact, and, last of all but still of importance, she had money—the qualities he most desired in his wife. But to make a pretence of love, whatever the heart may be, is a convention of marriage—like the bride's bouquet, or her train. So he said: