“But sometimes I can’t help thinking of the child and its future, and then all of a sudden my heart is ready to break with pity for the child’s father!  I have the consciousness that I do not love him, and that he has always known it—­and that makes me remorseful.  But I told him the truth before we married—­he promised to be patient with me till I had learned to love him!  Now I want to burst into tears and cry aloud, ’Oh, why did you do it?  Why did I let myself be persuaded into this marriage?’

“I tried to have a talk with him last night, after he had decided to go away.  I was full of pity, and a desire to help.  I said I wanted him to know that no matter how much we might disagree about some things, I meant to learn to live happily with him.  We must find some sort of compromise, for the sake of the child, if not for ourselves; we must not let the child suffer.  He answered coldly that there would be no need for the child to suffer, the child would have the best the world could afford.  I suggested that there might arise some question as to just what the best was; but to that he said nothing.  He went on to rebuke my discontent; had he not given me everything a woman could want? he asked.  He was too polite to mention money; but he said that I had leisure and entire freedom from care.  I was persisting in assuming cares, while he was doing all in his power to prevent it.

“And that was as far as we got.  I gave up the discussion, for we should only have gone the old round over again.

“Douglas has taken up a saying that my cousin brought with him:  ‘What you don’t know won’t hurt you!’ I think that before he left, Harley had begun to suspect that all was not well between my husband and myself, and he felt it necessary to give me a little friendly counsel.  He was tactful, and politely vague, but I understood him—­my worldly-wise young cousin.  I think that saying of his sums up the philosophy that he would teach to all women—­’What you don’t know won’t hurt you!’”

7.  A week or so later Sylvia wrote me that her husband was in New York.  And I waited another week, for good measure, and then one morning dropped in for a call upon Claire Lepage.

Why did I do it? you ask.  I had no definite purpose—­only a general opposition to the philosophy of Cousin Harley.

I was ushered into Claire’s boudoir, which was still littered with last evening’s apparel.  She sat in a dressing-gown with resplendent red roses on it, and brushed the hair out of her eyes, and apologized for not being ready for callers.

“I’ve just had a talking to from Larry,” she explained.

“Larry?” said I, inquiringly; for Claire had always informed me elaborately that van Tuiver had been her one departure from propriety, and always would be.

Apparently she had now reached a stage in her career where pretences were too much trouble.  “I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know how to manage men,” she said.  “I never can get along with one for any time.”