She was fighting bravely against angry tears.  As for him, he had suddenly become indifferent to what the people around them might be thinking.  With all his old arrogance come back in full flood, he was feeling that he would live his own life in his own way and that those who didn’t approve—­yes, including Dorothy—­might do as they saw fit.  She said: 

“I don’t blame you for regretting that you didn’t marry Miss Burroughs.”

“But I don’t regret it,” replied he.  “On the contrary, I’m glad.”

She glanced hopefully at him.  But the hopeful expression faded as he went on: 

“Whether or not I made a mistake in marrying you, I certainly had an escape from disaster when she decided she preferred a foreigner and a title.  There’s a good sensible reason why so many girls of her class—­more and more all the time—­marry abroad.  They are not fit to be the wives of hard-working American husbands.  In fact I’ve about reached the conclusion that of the girls growing up nowdays very few in any class are fit to be American wives.  They’re not big enough.  They’re too coarse and crude in their tastes.  They’re only fit for the shallow, showy sort of thing—­and the European aristocracy is their hope—­and their place.”

Her small face had a fascinating expression of a child trying to understand things far beyond its depth.  He was interested in his own thoughts, however, and went on—­for, if he had been in the habit of stopping when his hearers failed to understand, or when they misunderstood, either he would have been silent most of the time in company or his conversation would have been as petty and narrow and devoid of originality or imagination as is the mentality of most human beings—­as is the talk and reading that impress them as interesting—­and profound!

“The American man of the more ambitious sort,” he went on, “either has to live practically if not physically apart from his wife or else has to educate some not too difficult woman to be his wife.”

She understood that.  “You are really going to educate me?” she said, with an arch smile.  Now that Norman had her attention, now that she was centering upon him instead of upon herself, she was interested in him, and in what he said, whether she understood it or not, whether it pleased her vanity or wounded it.  The intellects of women work to an unsuspected extent only through the sex charm.  Their appreciations of books, of art, of men are dependant, often in the most curious indirect ways, upon the fact that the author, the artist, the politician or what not is betrousered.  Thus, Dorothy was patient, respectful, attentive, was not offended by Norman’s didactic way of giving her the lessons in life.  Her smile was happy as well as coquettish, as she asked him to educate her.

He returned her smile.  “That depends,” answered he.

“You’re not sure I’m worth the trouble?”

“You may put it that way, if you like.  But I’d say, rather, I’m not sure I can spare the time—­and you’re not sure you care to fit yourself for the place.”