“After I had learned how; after I had studied and planned how, so that I might not shock her or frighten her or disgust her or hurt her. You are like her--fastidious, delicate minded, not delicate only in mood, but delicate always. You like fine things and beautiful things. So do most men, but most men like other things too. Your mother could not tolerate in any one what was unbeautiful or coarse--many human things.” “But she could, for she told me to be tolerant.” Mr. Warner moved a little in the shadow which had fallen on his chair. “That’s what I taught her,--what I tried to teach her so that contacts would not be too hard for her.” “What if contacts are hard? Isn’t it better to preserve truth, to live according to beauty--not to be cheap? I know how silly, how common it all sounds, will sound; the things they will say about Dick and me. But it isn’t true that trivialities have made the trouble. It’s big things, basic things. I don’t want to compromise with an age that seems all wrong in its standards. I can’t bear to form myself on people like Della and Fliss.” “It wouldn’t do you any good to try that,” said Mr. Warner with a chuckle, “but I wish, my dear, that your humor was a little nearer the surface and that it could come to your assistance when you are unhappy as well as when you are happy.” “It’s queer about that. I can only see things black and white--happy or sad. It’s a great drawback. Sometimes I try to pretend, but it’s always so easy to see through my pretense.” Mr. Warner was pursuing his previous line of thought. “You and your mother are such women as foster the ideals men have about women--if they have any--making ideals for the home which every man treasures or respects. But it’s hard for men to live by their ideals alone and you demand that.” “I don’t understand it at all,” said Cecily, wearily, “why an effort to keep things close to the ideal men promise you before they marry you should end in failure.” “If it is failure; but I don’t believe it is. I don’t think you’ve hit the real reason for it. Cecily, is there any third person involved in this?” “Woman, you mean?” He nodded. “Not in the way you mean. We disagree awfully over one woman whom Dick admires,--Fliss Allenby.” “He’s not in love with her.” “No. That makes it all the worse. If he were you could understand his taking up her defense every time a criticism of her is made. But as a matter of fact he prefers even her--for whom he doesn’t care and whom I can remember his scorning when I first took her up after we were married--to me. He prefers almost anything to me.” “Don’t get bitter, Cecily.” “I didn’t know what that word meant except abstractly seven years ago. Now it seems to express me.” “Nonsense. Turn on the lights, my dear. We’re too gloomy.” The conversation became more practical. “Have you made any money arrangement with Dick?”