Alma pushed away her cushion, sat upright, and the slumbering fire flashed up under her jet lashes.

“If I do, that knowledge which earlier or later comes to all women, is certainly linked with the comforting consciousness that I can trust myself to govern and protect myself, without being tied to a watch-dog, whose baying would serve much the same purpose as that picture in mosaic in the House of the Tragic Poet.  I have a very sincere affection for you, Alma, but the day on which you sell yourself in a loveless marriage, will strain hard on the cable of esteem.”

“Is it for this reason that you refuse to officiate as my bridesmaid?”

“Solely because I will neither witness nor participate in an act which will give me great pain by lowering my estimate of your character.”

Alma’s long, supple, tapering fingers were outstretched, and taking Leo’s white dimpled hands, drew them caressingly to her face, pressing a palm against each cheek.

“Your good opinion is so precious, I cannot afford to lose it.  We accept men’s flattery and expect their compliments, because it is a traditional homage that survives the chivalry that inspired it; but we don’t mistake chaff for wheat, and the purest, sweetest, noblest and holiest friendship in life is that of a true, good woman.  The perfume is as different as the stale odor of a cigar, from the breath of the honeysuckle that bleached all night under crystal dew, floats in at your window like a message from heaven, I love you dearly, my pretty Portia, hence I wince a trifle at your harsh ascription of cave canem motives in my marriage.  In the idyllic Arthurian days, the ‘Lily Maid of Astolot’ made a touching picture, weeping and dying for the man who rode away, marauding on kingly preserves; but this is the era of wise, common sense ‘Maud Mullers’, and she and the Judge, mating as best they can, lead peaceful lives in a wholesome atmosphere, and cause no scandal by following ‘affinities’ across the lines of law; as some high in literature, art, and society have done, trusting that the starred mantle of genius would hide their moral leprosy.  With all my faults, at least I am honest; and when I bow my stiff neck under the yoke connubial, I promise you I will keep step demurely and sedately.  Do you remember a sombre book we read while yachting, which contained this brave confession of a woman, whose marriage made her historic?  ’I thought I had done with life.  I knew I had now cause to be proud of belonging to this man, and I was proud.  At the same time I as little feigned ardent love for him, as he demanded it from me.’  Leo, you and I represent different types.  You are an eagle brooding in cold eternal solitude upon the heights, rather than be wooed by valley hawks; I am only a very tired wren, who missed a mate on my first Valentine season, and seeing my plumage grows a rusty brown, I accept the overtures of one similarly forlorn, and hope for serene domesticity under the sheltering eaves of some quiet, cosey barn.  You are a nobler bird, no doubt; but trust me dear, I shall be the happier.”