“Marriage, my dear girl, is of many kinds; absurd to speak of it as one and indivisible.  There’s the marriage of interest, the marriage of reason, the marriage of love; and each of these classes can be almost infinitely subdivided.  For the majority of folk, I’m quite sure it would be better not to choose their own husbands and wives, but to leave it to sensible friends who wish them well.  In England, at all events, they think they marry for love, but that’s mere nonsense.  Did you ever know a love match?  I never even heard of one, in my little world.  Well,” she added, with her roguish smile, “putting yourself out of the question.”

Irene’s countenance betrayed a passing inquietude.  She had an air of reflection; averted her eyes; did not speak.

“The average male or female is never in love,” pursued Helen.  “They are incapable of it.  And in this matter I—­moi qui vous parle—­am average.  At least, I think I am; all evidence goes to prove it, so far.  I married my husband because I thought him the most interesting man I had ever met.  That was eight years ago, when I was two-and-twenty.  Curiously, I didn’t try to persuade myself that I was in love; I take credit for this, my dear!  No, it was a marriage of reason.  I had money, which Mr. Borisoff had not.  He really liked me, and does still.  But we are reasonable as ever.  If we felt obliged to live always together, we should be very uncomfortable.  As it is, I travel for six months when the humour takes me, and it works a merveille.  Into my husband’s life, I don’t inquire; I have no right to do so, and I am not by nature a busybody.  As for my own affairs, Mr. Borisoff is not uneasy; he has great faith in me—­which, speaking frankly, I quite deserve.  I am, my dear Irene, a most respectable woman—­there comes in my parentage.”

“Then,” said Irene, looking at her own beautiful fingernails, “your experience, after all, is disillusion.”

“Moderate disillusion,” replied the other, with her humorously judicial air.  “I am not grievously disappointed.  I still find my husband an interesting—­a most interesting—­man.  Both of us being so thoroughly reasonable, our marriage may be called a success.”

“Clearly, then, you don’t think love a sine qua non?”

“Clearly not.  Love has nothing whatever to do with marriage, in the statistical—­the ordinary—­sense of the term.  When I say love, I mean love—­not domestic affection.  Marriage is a practical concern of mankind at large; Love is a personal experience of the very few.  Think of our common phrases, such as ‘choice of a wife’; think of the perfectly sound advice given by sage elders to the young who are thinking of marriage, implying deliberation, care.  What have these things to do with love?  You can no more choose to be a lover, than to be a poet. Nascitur non fit—­oh yes, I know my Latin.  Generally, he man or woman born for love is born for nothing else.”