"He is her brother's friend, she adores athletics and dancing, and she is exercising the prerogative of her age and sex."
There was a silence of several moments, during which time Cosden was debating with himself whether it was too late for him to bring his dancing of the vintage of the nineties up to the present confusion of innovations. He had scoffed at modern dances but it might become necessary to revise his views.
"What an unusual ring you have," Miss Stevens exclaimed, leaning over his hand which rested upon the arm of his chair. "Is there a romance connected with it?"
Cosden took it off and handed it to her. "No," he said. "When you know me better you will understand that romance doesn't come into my make-up. I bought that ring myself particularly to avoid any sentiment. I can take it off when I like, wear it or not as I choose, and if I lose it nobody's heart is broken."
"That is an original idea," she laughed; then her face sobered. "I used to think romance was everything," she said seriously. "Now I wonder if what we call romance isn't another word for illusion. As I look back at my girl friends and see how many romances became tragedies, and how many matter-of-fact marriages, like Marian's and Harry's, have developed into real unions, I'm inclined to think that romance is a form of hypnotism."
"You've expressed my idea to a dot," Cosden replied emphatically. "Huntington is a sentimentalist, and he stamps my common-sense ideas as evidences of a commercial instinct. I've seen just what you've seen, and I believe that the business of life rests on exactly the same basis as the business of trade."
"Take Harry Thatcher, for example," Edith continued her own conversation rather than replied to his; "there's nothing brilliant about him outside his business success, but you always know where to find him. He's a comfortable man to have around. With men, they say he dominates everything he goes into, but in his home,—well, every now and then he stands out just on principle, but as a matter of fact even his ideas are in his wife's name."
Mrs. Thatcher and Huntington approached them returning from their moon-bath on the steps of the pier.
"Did you ever see so wonderful a night, Edith?" she exclaimed with enthusiasm. "This atmosphere, and the renewing of my friendship with Mr. Huntington, make me feel like a girl again."
"Monty must have been composing poetry," Cosden remarked.