She stopped, and when she went on again her face was set like one enduring pain.  “So this is the decision to which I have come.  If I do anything of a public nature now, I drive my husband from me; on the other hand, if I take a little time, I may be able to save the situation.  I need to educate myself, and I’m hoping I may be able to educate him at the same time.  If I can get him to read something—­if it’s only a few paragraphs everyday—­I may gradually change his point of view, so that he will tolerate what I believe.  At any rate, I ought to try; I am sure that is the wise and kind and fair thing to do.”

“What will you do about the ball?” I asked.

“I am going to take him away, out of this rush and distraction, this dressing and undressing, hurrying about meeting people and chattering about nothing.”

“He is willing?”

“Yes; in fact, he suggested it himself.  He thinks my mind is turned, with all the things I’ve been reading, and with Mrs. Frothingham, and Mrs. Allison, and the rest.  He hopes that if I go away, I may quiet down and come to my senses.  We have a good excuse.  I have to think of my health just now—–­”

She stopped, and looked away from my eyes.  I saw the colour spreading in a slow wave over her cheeks; it was like those tints of early dawn that are so ravishing to the souls of poets.  “In four or five months from now—–­” And she stopped again.

I put my big hand gently over her small one.  “I have three children of my own,” I said.

“So,” she went on, “it won’t seem so unreasonable.  Some people know, and the rest will guess, and there won’t be any talk—­I mean, such as there would be if it was rumoured that Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver had got interested in Socialism, and refused to spend her husband’s money.”

“I understand,” I replied.  “It’s quite the most sensible thing, and I’m glad you’ve found a way out.  I shall miss you, of course, but we can write each other long letters.  Where are you going?”

“I’m not absolutely sure.  Douglas suggests a cruise in the West Indies, but I think I should rather be settled in one place.  He has a lovely house in the mountains of North Carolina, and wants me to go there; but it’s a show-place, with rich homes all round, and I know I’d soon be in a social whirl.  I thought of the camp in the Adirondacks.  It would be glorious to see the real woods in winter; but I lose my nerve when I think of the cold—­I was brought up in a warm place.”

“A ‘camp’ sounds rather primitive for one in your condition,” I suggested.

“That’s because you haven’t been there.  In reality it’s a big house, with twenty-five rooms, and steam-heat and electric lights, and half a dozen men to take care of it when it’s empty—­as it has been for several years.”

I smiled—­for I could read her thought.  “Are you going to be unhappy because you can’t occupy all your husband’s homes?”