“A divorce would suit your purpose equally,” said Brimmer coldly.  “It can be easily obtained.”

“A divorce!  Do you know what that means to a woman in my profession?  It is a badge of shame,—­a certificate of disgrace,—­an advertisement to every miserable wretch who follows me with his advances that I have no longer the sanctity of girlhood, nor the protection of a wife.”

There was tragic emotion in her voice, there were tears in her eyes.  Mr. Brimmer, gazing at her with what he firmly thought to be absolute and incisive penetration, did not believe either.  But like most practical analysts of the half-motived sex, he was only half right.  The emotion and the tears were as real as anything else in the woman under criticism, notwithstanding that they were not as real as they would have been in the man who criticised.  He, however, did her full justice on a point where most men and all women misjudged her:  he believed that, through instinct and calculation, she had been materially faithful to her husband; that this large goddess-like physique had all the impeccability of a goddess; that the hysterical dissipation in which she indulged herself was purely mental, and usurped and preoccupied all other emotions.  In this public exposition of her beauty there was no sense of shame, for there was no sense of the passion it evoked.  And he was right.  But there he should have stopped.  Unfortunately, his masculine logic forced him to supply a reason for her coldness in the existence of some more absorbing passion.  He believed her ambitious and calculating:  she was neither.  He believed she might have made him an admirable copartner and practical helpmeet:  he was wrong.

“You know my secret now,” she continued.  “You know why I am anxious to know my fate.  You understand now why I sympathize with”—­she stopped, and made a half contemptuous gesture—­“with these men Markham and Keene.  They do not know it; perhaps they prefer to listen to their own vanity—­that’s the way of most men; but you do know it, and you have no excuse for misjudging me, or undeceiving them.”  She stopped and looked at the clock.  “They will be here in five minutes; do you wish them to find you already here?”

“It is as you wish,” stammered Brimmer, completely losing his self-possession.

“I have no wish,” she said, with a sublime gesture of indifference.  “If you wait you can entertain them here, while Rosina is dressing me in the next room.  We sup in the larger room across the hall.”

As she disappeared, Quincy Brimmer rose irresolutely from his seat and checked a half uttered exclamation.  Then he turned nervously to the parlor-door.  What a senseless idiot he had become!  He had never for an instant conceived the idea of making this preliminary confidential visit known to the others; he had no wish to suggest the appearance of an assignation with the woman, who, rightly or wrongly, was notorious;