She shrugged her shoulders. "Nature doesn't grant divorces," she said. "Birds are not divorced." "But they change mates every year," I replied. "Oh, do they? The shameless creatures." We laughed, looking straight into each other's eyes. I thought that she would make a splendid figure on the stage, and I told her so, expecting to hear her cry out against it, but she did not. She was pleased. "I have had that sort of longing," she said, "but I never expressed it, knowing that it would meet with a storm of disapproval. It wouldn't do," she continued, shaking her head. "I know that I could never reach the top, and a lower place--" "Would make your proud heart sore," I cried, with bitterness. She gave me a quick look of compassion, but said nothing; she let me continue: "I have had the cold clamps put on my impetuous soul, and, trying to conquer the evil opinion of the critic, I have worked and studied under the stimulus of despair. But I have given up the fight; I am going to quit the stage." I leaned toward her, hoping for a protest, but she quietly said, "I don't blame you," and I settled myself back with a sigh. She had seen me act. "What line of work do you intend to take up?" she inquired. "I am going to write plays." "And will you be satisfied if you don't write the best?" "I hadn't thought of that. Yes, in that line I think that I shall be satisfied with merely a success." And then with a wisdom that made me stare at her, she said: "We can find contentment in the middle ground of a second choice, for then the heart has had its day of suffering." "What do you read to your father?" I asked.