doesn't think much about those things. He likes her. I think he
likes her----"

"Well, doesn't dislike her?" suggested the philosopher. "Shall
we call him indifferent?"

"I don't know. Yes, rather indifferent. I don't think he thinks
about it, you know. But she--she's pretty. You needn't put that

down."
"I was not about to do so," observed the philosopher.

"She thinks life with him would be just heaven; and--and she
thinks she would make him awfully happy. She would--would be so

proud of him, you see."
"I see. Yes!"

"And--I don't know how to put it, quite--she thinks that, if he
ever thought about it all, he might care for her; because he

doesn't care for anybody else; and she's pretty----"
"You said that before."

"Oh, dear! I dare say I did. And most men care for somebody,
don't they? Some girl, I mean."

"Most men, no doubt," conceded the philosopher.
"Well, then, what ought she to do? It's not a real thing, you

know, Mr. Jerningham. It's in--in a novel I was reading." She
said this hastily, and blushed as she spoke.

"Dear me! And it's quite an interesting case! Yes, I see. The
question is, Will she act most wisely in accepting the offer of

the man who loves her exceedingly, but for whom she entertains
only a moderateaffection----"

"Yes. Just a liking. He's just a friend."
"Exactly. Or in marrying the other, whom she loves ex----"

"That's not it. How can she marry him? He hasn't--he hasn't
asked her, you see."

"True. I forgot. Let us assume, though, for the moment, that he
has asked her. She would then have to consider which marriage

would probably be productive of the greater sum total of----"
"Oh, but you needn't consider that."

"But it seems the best logical order. We can afterward make
allowance for the element of certainty" target="_blank" title="n.不可靠；不确定的事">uncertainty caused by----"

"Oh, no! I don't want it like that. I know perfectly well which
she'd do if he--the other man, you know--asked her."

"You apprehend that----"
"Never mind what I `apprehend.' Take it just as I told you."

"Very good. A has asked her hand, B has not."
"Yes."

"May I take it that, but for the disturbing influence of B, A
would be a satisfactory--er--candidate?"

"Ye--es. I think so."
"She, therefore, enjoys a certainty of considerable happiness if

she marries A?"
"Ye--es. Not perfect, because of--B, you know."

"Quite so, quite so; but still a fair amount of happiness. Is it
not so?"

"I don't--well, perhaps."
"On the other hand, if B did ask her, we are to postulate a

higher degree of happiness for her?"
"Yes, please, Mr. Jerningham--much higher."

"For both of them?"
"For her. Never mind him."

"Very well. That again simplifies the problem. But his asking
her is a contingency only?"

"Yes, that's all."
The philosopher spread out his hands.

"My dear young lady," he said, "it becomes a question of
degree. How probable or improbable is it?"

"I don't know. Not very probable--unless--unless----"
"Well?"

"Unless he did happen to notice, you know."
"Ah, yes. We supposed that, if he thought of it, he would

probably take the desired step--at least that he might be led to
do so. Could she not--er--indicate her preference?"

"She might try--no, she couldn't do much. You see, he--he
doesn't think about such things."

"I understand precisely. And it seems to me, Miss May, that in
that very fact we find our solution."

"Do we?" she asked.
"I think so. He has evidently no natural inclination toward

her--perhaps not toward marriage at all. Any feeling aroused in
him would be necessarilyshallow and in a measure artificial--and

in all likelihoodpurelytemporary. Moreover, if she took steps
to arouse his attention, one of two things would be likely

to happen. Are you following me?"
"Yes, Mr. Jerningham."

"Either he would be repelled by her overtures--which you must
admit is not improbable--and then the position would be

unpleasant, and even degrading, for her. Or, on the other hand,
he might, through a misplaced feeling of gallantry----"

"Through what?"
"Through a mistaken idea of politeness, or a mistaken view of

what was kind, allow himself to be drawn into a connection for
which he had no genuineliking. You agree with me that one or

other of these things would be likely?"
"Yes, I suppose they would, unless he did come to care for her."

"Ah, you return to that hypothesis. I think it's an extremely
fanciful one. No. She needn't marry A, but she must let B

alone."
The philosopher closed his book, took off his glasses, wiped

them, replaced them, and leaned back against the trunk of
the apple tree. The girl picked a dandelion in pieces. After a

long pause she asked:
"You think B's feelings wouldn't be at all likely to--to change?"

"That depends on the sort of man he is. But if he is an able
man, with intellectual interests which engross him--a man who has

chosen his path in life--a man to whom women's society is not a
necessity----"

"He's just like that," said the girl, and she bit the head off a
daisy.

"Then," said the philosopher, "I see not the least reason for
supposing that his feelings will change."

"And would you advise her to marry the other--A?"
"Well, on the whole, I should. A is a good fellow (I think we

made A a good fellow); he is a suitable match; his love for her
is true and genuine----"

"It's tremendous!"
"Yes--and--er--extreme. She likes him. There is every reason to

hope that her liking will develop into a sufficiently deep
and stableaffection. She will get rid of her folly about B and

make A a good wife. Yes, Miss May, if I were the author of your
novel, I should make her marry A, and I should call that a happy

ending."
A silence followed. It was broken by the philosopher.

"Is that all you wanted my opinion about, Miss May?" he asked,
with his finger between the leaves of the treatise on ontology.

"Yes, I think so. I hope I haven't bored you?"
"I've enjoyed the discussionextremely. I had no idea that

novels raised points of such psychological interest. I must find
time to read one."

The girl had shifted her position till, instead of her full face,