“It wouldn’t be a square deal to you, Rosalie.”

“And—­if I don’t care whether it’s a square deal or not?”

“Why, dear,” he said, covering her nervous, pretty hand with both of his, “I’d break your heart in a week.”

He laughed, dropped her fingers, stepped back to the door, and, laying his hand on the knob, said evenly: 

“That husband of yours is not the sort of man I particularly take to, but I believe he’s about the average if you’d care to make him so.”

She coloured with surprise.  Then something in her scornful eyes inspired him with sudden intuition.

“As a matter of fact,” he said lightly, “you care for him still.”

“I can very easily prove the contrary,” she said, walking slowly up to him, close, closer, until the slight tremor of contact halted her and her soft, irregular breath touched his face.

“What a girl like you needs,” he laughed, taking her into his arms, “is a man to hold her this way—­every now and then, and”—­he kissed her—­“tell her she is incomparable—­which I cannot truthfully tell you, dear.”  He released her at arms’ length.

“I don’t know whose fault it is,” he went on:  “I don’t know whether he still really cares for you in spite of his weak peregrinations to other shrines; but you still care for him.  And it’s up to you to make him what he can be—­the average husband.  There are only two kinds, Rosalie, the average and the bad.”

She looked straight into his eyes, but the deep, mantling colour belied her audacity.

“Do you know,” she said, “that we haven’t—­lived together for two years?”

“I don’t want to know such things,” he said gently.

“Well, you do know now.  I—­am—­very much alone.  You see I have already become capable of saying anything—­and of doing it, too.”

There came a reckless glimmer into her eyes; she set her teeth—­a trick of hers; the fresh lips parted slightly under her rapid breathing.

“Do you think,” she said unevenly, “that I’m going on all my life like this—­without anything more than the passing friendship of men to balance the example he sets me?”

“No, I think something is bound to happen, Rosalie.  May I suggest what ought to happen?”

She nodded thoughtfully; only the quiver of her lower lip betrayed the tension of self-control.

“Take him back,” he said.

“I no longer care for him.”

“You are mistaken.”

After a moment she said:  “I don’t think so; truly I don’t.  All consideration for him has died in me.  His conduct doesn’t matter—­doesn’t hurt me any more——­”

“Yes, it does.  He’s just a plain ass—­an average ass—­ownerless, and, like all asses, convinced that he can take care of himself.  Go and put the halter on him again.”

“Go—­and—­what do you mean?”