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“Well, one’s enough to show the style. This is it:

“‘Was I a Samurai renowned,
Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow?
A histrion angular and profound?
A priest? or porter? Child, although
I have forgotten clean, I know
That in the shade of Fujisan,
What time the cherry-orchards blow,
I loved you once in old Japan.'”

The verse on the lips of Mr. Vandewaters struck her strangely. He was not like any man she had known. Most self-made Englishmen, with such a burly exterior and energy, and engaged in such pursuits, could not, to save themselves from hanging, have impressed her as Mr. Vandewaters did. There was a big round sympathy in the tone, a timbre in the voice, which made the words entirely fitting. Besides, he said them without any kind of affectation, and with a certain turn of dry humour, as if he were inwardly laughing at the idea of the poem.

“The verses are charming,” she said, musingly; “and the idea put that way is charming also. But do you think there would be much amusement in living half-a-dozen times, or even twice, unless you were quite sure that you remembered everything? This gentleman was peculiarly fortunate to recall Fujisan, and the orange orchards–and the girl.”

“I believe you are right. One life is about enough for most of us. Memory is all very fine; but you’d want a life set apart for remembering the others after awhile.”

“Why do you not add, ‘And that would bore one?’ Most of the men I know would say so.”

“Well, I never used the word that way in my life. When I don’t like a thing, that ends it–it has got to go.”

“You cannot do that with everything.”

“Pretty much, if I set my mind to it. It is astonishing how things’ll come round your way if you keep on thinking and willing them so.”

“Have you always got everything you wanted?” He had been looking off into the grounds through the open window. Now he turned slowly upon her.

“So far I have got everything I set my mind to get. Little things don’t count. You lose them sometimes because you want to work at something else; sometimes because, as in cards, you are throwing a few away to save the whole game.”

He looked at her, as she thought, curiously. In his mind he was wondering if she knew that he had made up his mind to marry her. She was suddenly made aware of the masterfulness of his spirit, which might, she knew, be applied to herself.

“Let us go into the grounds,” he added, all at once. Soon after, in the shade of the trees, she broke in upon the thread of their casual conversation. “A few moments ago,” she murmured, “you said: ‘One life is about enough for most of us.’ Then you added a disparaging remark about memory. Well, that doesn’t seem like your usual point of view–more like that of Mr. Pride; but not so plaintive, of course. Pray do smoke,” she added, as, throwing back his coat, he exposed some cigars in his waistcoat pocket. “I am sure you always smoke after lunch.”

He took out a cigar, cut off the end, and put it in his mouth. But he did not light it. Then he glanced up at her with a grave quizzical look as though wondering what would be the effect of his next words, and a smile played at his lips.

“What I meant was this. I think we get enough out of our life to last us for centuries. It’s all worth doing from the start, no matter what it is: working, fighting, marching and countermarching, plotting and counterplotting, backing your friends and hating your foes, playing big games and giving others a chance to, standing with your hand on the lynch-pin, or pulling your head safe out of the hot-pot. But I don’t think it is worth doing twice. The interest wouldn’t be fresh. For men and women and life, with a little different dress, are the same as they always were; and there’s only the same number of passions working now, as at the beginning. I want to live life up to the hilt; because it is all new as I go on; but never twice.”