Alma could not feel the absurdity of this, and she merely said, “’Every Other Week’ seems to be going on just the same as ever.”

“Yes, the trouble has all blown over, I believe.  Fulkerson,” said Beaton, with a return to what they were saying, “has managed the whole business very well.  But he exaggerates the value of my advice.”

“Very likely,” Alma suggested, vaguely.  “Or, no!  Excuse me!  He couldn’t, he couldn’t!” She laughed delightedly at Beaton’s foolish look of embarrassment.

He tried to recover his dignity in saying, “He’s ’a very good fellow, and he deserves his happiness.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Alma, perversely.  “Does any one deserve happiness?”

“I know I don’t,” sighed Beaton.

“You mean you don’t get it.”

“I certainly don’t get it.”

“Ah, but that isn’t the reason.”

“What is?”

“That’s the secret of the universe,” She bit in her lower lip, and looked at him with eyes, of gleaming fun.

“Are you never serious?” he asked.

“With serious people always.”

“I am serious; and you have the secret of my happiness—­” He threw himself impulsively forward in his chair.

“Oh, pose, pose!” she cried.

“I won’t pose,” he answered, “and you have got to listen to me.  You know I’m in love with you; and I know that once you cared for me.  Can’t that time—­won’t it—­come back again?  Try to think so, Alma!”

“No,” she said, briefly and seriously enough.

“But that seems impossible.  What is it I’ve done what have you against me?”

“Nothing.  But that time is past.  I couldn’t recall it if I wished.  Why did you bring it up?  You’ve broken your word.  You know I wouldn’t have let you keep coming here if you hadn’t promised never to refer to it.”

“How could I help it?  With that happiness near us—­Fulkerson—­”

“Oh, it’s that?  I might have known it!”

“No, it isn’t that—­it’s something far deeper.  But if it’s nothing you have against me, what is it, Alma, that keeps you from caring for me now as you did then?  I haven’t changed.”

“But I have.  I shall never care for you again, Mr. Beaton; you might as well understand it once for all.  Don’t think it’s anything in yourself, or that I think you unworthy of me.  I’m not so self-satisfied as that; I know very well that I’m not a perfect character, and that I’ve no claim on perfection in anybody else.  I think women who want that are fools; they won’t get it, and they don’t deserve it.  But I’ve learned a good. deal more about myself than I knew in St. Barnaby, and a life of work, of art, and of art alone that’s what I’ve made up my mind to.”

“A woman that’s made up her mind to that has no heart to hinder her!”

“Would a man have that had done so?”

“But I don’t believe you, Alma.  You’re merely laughing at me.  And, besides, with me you needn’t give up art.  We could work together.  You know how much I admire your talent.  I believe I could help it—­serve it; I would be its willing slave, and yours, Heaven knows!”