"But, my angel, I had not met you when I made that assertion. I was speaking of an imaginary woman. Men are not expected to do impossible things. Besides, you do not realize how very ill I had been. I think we shall get on better if you will reserve your comments till the end of each chapter, when I shall be delighted to hear as many as you like." She returned good naturedly to the machine, and recorded the balance of the chapter that is numbered two in this volume. When I said we had done enough for one day, she answered that she thought a little work in the afternoon would hurt neither of us; and that, for her part, she would be glad to begin again after lunch. It was plain that she was becoming interested and wanted to get on as fast as possible. Pleased at this, I consented to her plan. It was only half past eleven when she stopped and a rest of two or three hours would put us both right again. "I don't think I realized you had been so terribly ill," she said, taking a rocker and placing herself at ease. "I don't like to talk much about it, or even to think of it," was my reply, "but you may be sure it was hard enough. I would rather endure any pain than the awful depression that accompanies neurasthenia. When I recovered it seemed as if I had died and been resurrected. My old life was gone and I did not wish to recall it. The new one was full of new possibilities and dreams. How happy I shall be when they are all fulfilled!" "And were you so very--very wicked?" she asked, constrainedly. "I cannot believe it when I look at you. Vice ought to leave some distinguishing mark, but your face is as innocent as a babe's." "You are very kind to say so. But I want to talk about that still less than about my illness. Both of them have come to an end." "Let us trust so," she said, gently. How gently and sweetly she did say it! The third chapter, which we did that day before taking our drive, called for no interruption on her part with one exception, and that was because she did not quite catch one word. It was in relation to the letter of credit that I had brought. "Did you say two thousand?" she asked, "or three?" "Two thousand," I answered, and she went on rapidly, talking down the words as they fell from my lips. The account of Charmion's performance at Koster and Bial's disturbed her visibly, but she went bravely to the end. "Do you really mean that this exposure took place in a New York theatre, at a regular performance?" she asked, when I said that was the end. "Exactly as described." "It is shameful!" she exclaimed, angrily. "If women had charge of the theatres such things would not be permitted." "You forget," I replied, "that half the audience were women--ladies, if you please." She bit her lip. "You ought not to put it in the story, at any rate," she said. "It will only encourage people with debased minds to go to view it."