“I could be happy in Central Park,” she declared.

“Fortunately,” said Mr. Crewe, “you will never be called upon to make the trial.”

Victoria was silent.  Her thoughts, for the moment, had flown elsewhere, but Mr. Crewe did not appear to notice this.  He fell back into the rounded hollow of the bench, and it occurred to him that he had never quite realized that profile.  And what an ornament she would be to his table.

“I think, Humphrey,” she said, “that we should be going back.”

“One moment, and I’ll have finished,” he cried.  “I’ve no doubt you are prepared for what I am going to say.  I have purposely led up to it, in order that there might be no misunderstanding.  In short, I have never seen another woman with personal characteristics so well suited for my life, and I want you to marry me, Victoria.  I can offer you the position of the wife of a man with a public career—­for which you are so well fitted.”

Victoria shook her head slowly, and smiled at him.

“I couldn’t fill the position,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he replied, smiling back at her, “perhaps I am the best judge of that.”

“And you thought,” she asked slowly, “that I was that kind of a woman?”

“I know it to be a practical certainty,” said Mr. Crewe.

“Practical certainties,” said Victoria, “are not always truths.  If I should sign a contract, which I suppose, as a business man, you would want, to live up to the letter of your specifications,—­even then I could not do it.  I should make life a torture for you, Humphrey.  You see, I am honest with you, too—­much as your offer dazzles me.”  And she shook her head again.

“That,” exclaimed Mr. Crewe, impatiently, “is sheer nonsense.  I want you, and I mean to have you.”

There came a look into her eyes which Mr. Crewe did not see, because her face was turned from him.

“I could be happy,” she said, “for days and weeks and years in a but on the side of Sawanec.  I could be happy in a farm-house where I had to do all the work.  I am not the model housewife which your imagination depicts, Humphrey.  I could live in two rooms and eat at an Italian restaurant—­with the right man.  And I am afraid the wrong one would wake up one day and discover that I had gone.  I am sorry to disillusionize you, but I don’t care a fig for balls and garden-parties and salons.  It would be much more fun to run away from them to the queer places of the earth—­with the right man.  And I should have to possess one essential to put up with—­greatness and what you call a public career.”

“And what is that essential?” he asked.

“Love,” said Victoria.  He heard the word but faintly, for her face was still turned away from him.  “You’ve offered me the things that are attainable by taking thought, by perseverance, by pertinacity, by the outwitting of your fellow-men, by the stacking of coins.  And I want—­the unattainable, the divine gift which is bestowed, which cannot be acquired.  If it could be acquired, Humphrey,” she added, looking at him, “I am sure you would acquire it—­if you thought it worth while.”