Unfortunately it didn't interest her much.
Franklin's eagerness about some local election, or admiration for some talented pupil, or enthusiasm in regard to a new theory that delved deeper and circled wider than any before, left her imagination inert, as did he.

But to-night all these things were transformed by the greatness of her own need and of her own relief.

And when she read that Franklin was to be in Europe in six weeks' time, and that he intended to spend some months there, and, if she would allow it, as near her as was possible, a sudden hope rose in her and seemed almost a joy.
Was it so impossible, after all, as an alternative?
Equipped with her own outlooks, with her wider experience, and with her ample means, might not dear Franklin be eligible?
To sink back on Franklin, after all these years, would be, of course, to confess to failure; but even in failure there were choices, and wasn't this the best form of failure?
Franklin was not, could never be, the lover she had dreamed of; she had never met that lover, and she had always dreamed of him.

Franklin was dun-coloured; the lover of her dreams a Perseus-like flash of purple and gold, ardent, graceful, compelling, some one who would open doors to large, bright vistas, and lead her into a life of beauty.

But this was a dream and Franklin was the fact, and to-night he seemed the only fact worth looking at.