who are swathed and stupefied in a luxury they have not to take the least thought to provide for themselves.  Like all those women, Josephine fancied herself complex—­fancied she was a person of variety and of depth because she repeated with a slight change of wording the things she read in clever books or heard from clever men.  There seemed to Norman to be small enough originality, personality, to the ordinary man of the comfortable class; but there was some, because his necessity of struggling with and against his fellow men in the several arenas of active life compelled him to be at least a little of a person.  In the women there seemed nothing at all—­not even in Josephine.  When he listened to her, when he thought of her, now—­he was calmly critical.  He judged her as a human specimen—­judged much as would have old Newton Hallowell to whom the whole world was mere laboratory.

She bored him now—­and he made no effort beyond bare politeness to conceal the fact from her.  The situation was saved from becoming intolerable by that universal saver of intolerable situations, vanity.  She had the ordinary human vanity.  In addition, she had the peculiar vanity of woman, the creation of man’s flatteries lavished upon the sex he alternately serves and spurns.  In further addition, she had the vanity of her class—­the comfortable class that feels superior to the mass of mankind in fortune, in intellect, in taste, in everything desirable.  Heaped upon all these vanities was her vanity of high social rank—­and atop the whole her vanity of great wealth.  None but the sweetest and simplest of human beings can stand up and remain human under such a weight as this.  If we are at all fair in our judgments of our fellow men, we marvel that the triumphant class—­especially the women, whose point of view is never corrected by the experiences of practical life—­are not more arrogant, more absurdly forgetful of the oneness and the feebleness of humanity.

Josephine was by nature one of the sweet and simple souls.  And her love for Norman, after the habit of genuine love, had destroyed all the instinct of coquetry.  The woman—­or, the man—­has to be indeed interesting, indeed an individuality, to remain interesting when sincerely in love, and so elevated above the petty but potent sex trickeries.  Josephine, deeply in love, was showing herself to Norman in her undisguised natural sweet simplicity—­and monotony.  But, while men admire and reverence a sweet and simple feminine soul—­and love her in plays and between the covers of a book and when she is talking highfaluting abstractions of morality—­and wax wroth with any other man who ignores or neglects her—­they do not in their own persons become infatuated with her.  Passion is too much given to moods for that; it has a morbid craving for variety, for the mysterious and the baffling.

The only thing that saves the race from ruin through passion is the rarity of those by nature or by art expert in using it.  Norman felt that he was paying the penalty for his persistent search for this rarity; one of the basest tricks of destiny upon man is to give him what he wants—­wealth, or fame, or power, or the woman who enslaves.  Norman felt that destiny had suddenly revealed its resolve to destroy him by giving him not one of the things he wanted, but all.