Leo withdrew her hands, and pushed back her chair, widening the space that divided them.

“You disappoint me keenly.  I thought you too brave to crouch before the jeers hurled at ‘old maidenism’.  Moral cowardice is the last flaw I expected in one of your fibre.”

“Wait till you are thirty-three, and stand as a target at Society’s archery meeting.  Yesterday Celeste was pale with horror when she showed me two white hairs pulled from my ‘bangs’, and added, ’Helas races! and powdered hair no more the style!’ My dear girl—­

    “’True love, of course, is scarcely in society,
     Unless in fancy dress, and masked like one of us—­’”

still I really am very proud of my six feet two inches prospective conjugal yoke-fellow; proud of his martial bearing, his brilliant reputation, ‘proud of his pride’; and I think I shall grow very fond of him, because in a mild way I think he cares for me’; and we can make a little Indian Summer for each other before the frosts of Winter fall upon us.  What else can I do with my life?  Think of it.  Papa will be married soon, and while I don’t propose to tear my hair and insult his bride, nobody can be expected to reach such altitudes of self-abnegation as to want a step-mother.  Poor papa, I am sure I hope he may be very happy, but it is superhuman to elect to live under the same roof, and smile benignantly on his bliss.  Rivers, too, has slipped under the matrimonial noose, and I am absolutely thrown on my own resources for companionship.  What does society offer me?  Haggard, weazen old witch, bedizened in a painted mask; don’t I know the yellow teeth and bleared eyes behind the paste-board, and the sharp nails in the claws hidden under undressed kid?  Have not I gone around for years on her gaudy wheel, like that patient, uncomplaining goat we saw stepping on the broad spokes of the great wheel that churned the butter, and pressed the cheese in that dairy, near Udine?  The dizzying circle, where one must step, step—­keep time or be lost!  In Winter, balls, receptions, luncheons, teas, Germans, theatre parties, opera suppers; a rush for the first glimpse of the last picture that emerges from the custom-house; for a bouquet of the newest rose that took the prize at the London Show.  In season, coaching parties, tally ho!  Then fox hunting minus the fox, and later, boating and bathing and lawn tennis!—­and—­always—­ everywhere heart-burnings, vapid formalities; beaux setting belles at each other like terriers scrambling after a mouse; mothers lying in wait, as wise cats watching to get their paws on the first-class catch they know their pretty kittens cannot manage successfully.  Oh!  Don’t I know it all!  I dare say my world is the very best possible of its kind; and I am not cynical, but oh Lord!  I am so deadly tired of everything, and everybody.”

“No wonder, unless you mercilessly calumniate it; but you have only yourself to blame.  You made social success your aim, fashionable life your temple of worship, sham your only God.  If you habitually drink poppy juice, can you fail to be drowsy?”