by desertion or cruelty.  Surely not even her father would consider that a decent arrangement!  I mentioned a recent decision of the highest court in the land, that a man who brought his mistress to live in his home, and compelled his wife to wait upon her, was not committing cruelty within the meaning of the English law.  I heard Sylvia’s exclamation of horror, and met her stare of incredulity; and then suddenly I thought of Claire, and a little chill ran over me.  It was a difficult hour, in more ways than one, that of my first talk with Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver!

I soon made the discovery that, childish as her ignorance was, there was no prejudice in it.  If you brought her a fact, she did not say that it was too terrible to be true, or that the Bible said otherwise, or that it was indecent to know about it.  Nor, when you met her next, did you discover that she had forgotten it.  On the contrary, you discovered that she had followed it to its remote consequences, and was ready with a score of questions as to these.  I remember saying to myself, that first automobile ride:  “If this girl goes on thinking, she will get into trouble!  She will have to stop, for the sake of others!”

“You must meet my husband some time,” she said; and added, “I’ll have to see my engagement-book.  I have so much to do, I never know when I have a moment free.”

“You must find it interesting,” I ventured.

“I did, for a while; but I’ve begun to get tired of so much going about.  For the most part I meet the same people, and I’ve found out what they have to say.”

I laughed.  “You have caught the society complaint already—­ennui!”

“I had it years ago, at home.  It’s true I never would have gone out at all if it hadn’t been for the sake of my family.  That’s why I envy a woman like you—­”

I could not help laughing.  It was too funny, Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver envying me!

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Just the irony of life.  Do you know, I cut you out of the newspaper, and put you in a little frame on my bureau.  I thought, here is the loveliest face I’ve ever seen, and here is the most-to-be-envied of women.”

She smiled, but quickly became serious.  “I learned very early in life that I was beautiful; and I suppose if I were suddenly to cease being beautiful, I’d miss it; yet I often think it’s a nuisance.  It makes one dependent on externals.  Most of the beautiful women I’ve known make a sort of profession of it—­they live to shine and be looked at.

“And you don’t enjoy that?” I asked.

“It restricts one’s life.  Men expect it of you, they resent your having any other interest.”

“So,” I responded, gravely, “with all your beauty and wealth, you aren’t perfectly happy?”

“Oh, yes!” she cried—­not having meant to confess so much.  “I told myself I would be happy, because I would be able to do so much good in the world.  There must be some way to do good with money!  But now I’m not sure; there seem to be so many things in the way.  Just when you have your mind made up that you have a way to help, someone comes and points out to you that you may be really doing harm.”