“Then he must have admired you, Selma.  Poor fellow!  I wish he might have that happiness himself.  I’ll tell you a secret:  He has desired to marry Pauline for years.  They are devoted friends—­but until now that is all.  His wife was an actress—­a handsome creature.  Two years after they were married she ran away with another man and left him.  Left him with one little boy, a cripple, on whom he lavishes all the love of his big nature.”

“How dreadful!”

“Yes, it is a sad story.  That was ten years ago.  He was very young and the woman was very beautiful.  It has been the making of him, though, in one way.  He had the pride and confidence of ability, but he lacked sympathy.  His experience and the appealing presence of his son have developed his nature and given him tenderness.  He has not been imbittered; he has simply become gentle.  And how he works!  He is already famous in his profession.”

“Does Pauline care for him?”

“I don’t know her feelings.  I am sure she is fond of him, and admires him.  I fancy, though, that she hesitates to renounce her own ambitions.  As you are aware, she is greatly interested in her classes, and in matters pertaining to the higher education of women.  George Page knew her at the time of his marriage.  I do not mean that he paid her serious attention then, but he had the opportunity to ask her instead of the other.  Now, when she has become absorbed in her life-work, she would naturally decline to give it up unless she felt sure that she could not be happy without him.”

“I would not marry him if I were she,” said Selma.  “He has given his best to the other woman.  He is the one at fault, not Pauline.  Why should she sacrifice her own career in order to console him?”

“She might love him sufficiently to be willing to do so, Selma.  Love makes women blind to faults.  But poor George was scarcely at fault.  It was a misfortune.”

“He made his choice and was deceived.  It would be weak of her to give up her own life merely because he is lonely.  We modern women have too much self-respect for that.  Love is love, and it is not to be trifled with.”

“Yes, love is love,” murmured Littleton, “and I am happy in mine.”

“That is because neither of us has loved before, you foolish boy.  But as to this evening, it wasn’t at all what I expected.  Are your friends always like that?”

Littleton laughed.  “Did they seem to you frivolous and undignified, then?”

“Almost.  They certainly said nothing serious.”

“It is their holiday—­their evening out.  They have to be serious during the rest of the week—­busy with problems and cares, for they are a set of hard workers.  The stress of life is so rigorous and constant here in New York that we have learned not to take our pleasure sadly.  When you become accustomed to their way you will realize that they are no less serious at heart because they frolic now and then.”