This history concerns a free and untrammelled—­and, let us add, feminine —­spirit.  No lady is in the least interesting if restricted and contented with her restrictions,—­a fact which the ladies of our nation are fast finding out.  What would become of the Goddess of Liberty?  And let us mark well, while we are making these observations, that Liberty is a goddess, not a god, although it has taken us in America over a century to realize a significance in the choice of her sex.  And—­another discovery!—­she is not a haus frau.  She is never domiciled, never fettered.  Even the French, clever as they are, have not conceived her:  equality and fraternity are neither kith nor kin of hers, and she laughs at them as myths—­for she is a laughing lady.  She alone of the three is real, and she alone is worshipped for attributes which she does not possess.  She is a coquette, and she is never satisfied.  If she were, she would not be Liberty:  if she were, she would not be worshipped of men, but despised.  If they understood her, they would not care for her.  And finally, she comes not to bring peace, but a sword.

At quarter to seven one blustery evening of the April following their fourth anniversary Honora returned from New York to find her husband seated under the tall lamp in the room he somewhat facetiously called his “den,” scanning the financial page of his newspaper.  He was in his dressing gown, his slippered feet extended towards the hearth, smoking a cigarette.  And on the stand beside him was a cocktail glass—­empty.

“Howard,” she cried, brushing his ashes from the table, “how can you be so untidy when you are so good-looking dressed up?  I really believe you’re getting fat.  And there,” she added, critically touching a place on the top of his head, “is a bald spot!”

“Anything else?” he murmured, with his eyes still on the sheet.

“Lots,” answered Honora, pulling down the newspaper from before his face.  “For one thing, I’m not going to allow you to be a bear any more.  I don’t mean a Stock Exchange bear, but a domestic bear—­which is much worse.  You’ve got to notice me once in a while.  If you don’t, I’ll get another husband.  That’s what women do in these days, you know, when the one they have doesn’t take the trouble to make himself sufficiently agreeable.  I’m sure I could get another one quite easily,” she declared.

He looked up at her as she stood facing him in the lamplight before the fire, and was forced to admit to himself that the boast was not wholly idle.  A smile was on her lips, her eyes gleamed with health; her furs —­of silver fox—­were thrown back, the crimson roses pinned on her mauve afternoon gown matched the glow in her cheeks, while her hair mingled with the dusky shadows.  Howard Spence experienced one of those startling, illuminating moments which come on occasions to the busy and self-absorbed husbands of his nation.  Psychologists have a name for such a phenomenon.  Ten minutes before, so far as his thoughts were concerned, she had not existed, and suddenly she had become a possession which he had not, in truth, sufficiently prized.  Absurd though it was, the possibility which she had suggested aroused in him a slight uneasiness.