"But love," he answered gently. "No woman's life ever really ripens except through love. And—forgive me again, but I must say it—you're not getting the most out of life, living as you are now, Miss Helen."
I looked at him searchingly. "As I am now?" I echoed. "Why, what kind of life do you think I'm living?" But even as I spoke the words my own poor heart provided all the answer. I felt rising up within me a conception, not adequate or full, but quite sufficient at the time, of the hollowness and barrenness of the poor frivolous life I was living. And I knew, oh, so well, how far from the well-spring of real joy and peace were the glittering streams at which I had sipped so long.
"What do you mean?" I urged, for he had not spoken.
"Oh," he began slowly, "I guess you know. Nobody can have a nature like yours without knowing when it's not being satisfied. You have no work—no calling, I mean. And you don't have any recreation, except only pleasure—a little party here, and a picnic there, a card party yonder, and an afternoon tea somewhere else. You know what I mean—all those things—and a nature like yours can't live on confections," he added, smiling. "That's why I'll be glad—when the other happens."
"What other?" repeated I, who knew right well again.
"You know," he said; and the great eyes looked solemnly and wistfully into-mine.
"Do you mean when I marry Mr. Giddens?" said I, dwelling on the words, my eyes never taken from his face.
"Yes," he said; "that's what I mean." And his own eyes never flinched, although I could see the pallor deepen on his face. And I rejoiced, though I honestly believe I scarce knew why.
"What difference would—would that make?" I asked, looking away.
"It would fill your life," he answered quietly, "fill your life to overflowing."