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“It must have been darmed important then. What was it?”

“I was wondering what sort of girl you’d eventually marry. She should be big and strong and handsome—a sort of young Diana.”

“Marry!” he exclaimed contemptuously. “Do you think I’d be fool enough ever to get married?”

“I don’t know yet how great a fool you can be. But marriage isn’t foolish—lots of wise people in the world have married.”

“That’s all you women ever think about—love and marriage. Rot!”

“Other people—men—have thought love of some importance, you know. Here’s one who believed it to be worth writing poems about.” She picked up one of the books. “If you could ever express in words anything a hundredth part as beautiful as some of these verses, I’d be proud to feel I’d known you.”

“Huh! A poet! A poet isn’t a man.”

“You’re very self-satisfied and very ignorant, you know,” said Ann, eyeing him dispassionately. “On the whole I’m a trifle sorry for that nice, big, handsome girl you’re going to marry some day.”

“Don’t waste your pity,” he returned, unmoved. “As the little boy said about the apple-core—there ain’t going to be no girl!”

Ann suddenly dropped her bantering tone.

“What’s your objection to marriage?” she asked.

“Marriage is right enough for women.”

“But not for men?”

“What does a man gain by tying himself up for good and all to one woman?”

“He gains companionship.”