“He did nothing but talk about you, Grace,” said Mrs. Maynard, with a sly look at the other. “He’s awfully afraid of you, and he kept asking about you.” “Louise,” said the other, gravely ignoring these facts, “I never undertook the care of you socially, and I object very much to lecturing you. You are nearly as old as I am, and you have had a great deal more experience of life than I have.” Mrs. Maynard sighed deeply in assent. “But it doesn’t seem to have taught you that if you will provoke people to talk of you, you must expect criticism. One after another you’ve told nearly every woman in the house your affairs, and they have all sympathized with you and pitied you. I shall have to be plain, and tell you that I can’t have them sneering and laughing at any one who is my guest. I can’t let you defy public opinion here.” “Why, Grace,” said Mrs. Maynard, buoyed above offence at her friend’s words by her consciousness of the point she was about to make, “you defy public opinion yourself a good deal more than I do, every minute.” “I? How do I defy it?” demanded Grace indignantly. “By being a doctor.” Grace opened her lips to speak, but she was not a ready person, and she felt the thrust. Before she could say anything Mrs. Maynard went on: “There isn’t one of them that doesn’t think you’re much more scandalous than if you were the greatest flirt alive. But, _I_ don’t mind them, and why should _you?_” The serious girl whom she addressed was in that helpless subjection to the truth in which so many New England women pass their lives. She could not deny the truth which lurked in the exaggeration of these words, and it unnerved her, as the fact that she was doing what the vast majority of women considered unwomanly always unnerved her when she suffered herself to think of it. “You are right, Louise,” she said meekly and sadly. “They think as well of you as they do of me.” “Yes, that’s just what I _said!_” cried Mrs. Maynard, glad of her successful argument. But however disabled, her friend resumed: “The only safe way for you is to take the ground that so long as you wear your husband’s name you must honor it, no matter how cruel and indifferent to you he has been.” “Yes,” assented Mrs. Maynard ruefully, “of course.” “I mean that you mustn’t even have the appearance of liking admiration, or what you call attentions. It’s wicked.” “I suppose so,” murmured the culprit. “You have been brought up to have such different ideas of divorce from what I have,” continued Grace, “that I don’t feel as if I had any right to advise you about what you are to do after you gain your suit.” “I shall not want to get _married_ again for _one_ while; I know _that_ much,” Mrs. Maynard interpolated self-righteously. “But till you do gain it, you ought not to regard it as emancipating you in the slightest degree.” “No,” came in sad assent from the victim of the law’s delays.