“But even at the worst, I’m generally out by noon, and get a walk. I’m rather dependent on exercise, and then I lunch with some one or other--” “Men or women?” “Either or both. And then after lunch I drive with some one, or go to see pictures or hear music, and then I like to be at home by tea time, because that’s, of course, the hour every one counts on finding you; and then there’s dressing and going out to dinner, and very often something afterwards.” “Good Lord,” said Riatt again, and after a moment he added: “And does that life amuse you?” “No, but it doesn’t bore me as much as doing things that are more trouble.” “What sort of things?” “Oh, being on committees that you don’t really take any interest in.” She rather enjoyed his amazement. “Now tell me one thing more,” he said. “What would you do if you had to earn your living?” The true answer was that she would marry Edward Hickson, but, though heretofore she had been fairly candid, she thought on this point a little dissembling was permissible. “I should starve, I suppose,” she returned gaily. “And suppose you fell in love with a poor man?” She grew grave at once. “Oh, that’s a dreadful thing to happen to one,” she said. “I’ve had two friends who did that.” She almost shuddered. “One actually married him.” “And what happened to her?” Miss Fenimer shook her head. “I don’t know. She’s living in the suburbs somewhere. I haven’t seen her for ages.” “And the other?” “She was more practical. She married him to a rich widow ten years older than he was. That provided for him, you see, at least. But it turned out worse than the other case.” “How?” “Why, he fell in love with this other woman--” “His wife, you mean?” “Yes. Imagine it! Men are so fickle.” “Do you know that you really shock me?” “It’s better to appreciate the way things are.” “It isn’t the way things are among decent normal human beings.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, I imagine it is,” she said, “only they’re not honest enough to admit it.” He continued to stare at her and, strangely enough, she had never seemed to him more beautiful. “And do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that people who have the standards that you describe will attach the slightest importance to an innocent little adventure like this of ours?” “Of course. They are the very people who will.” “Nonsense.” “Yes, because they make a point of always believing the worst, or at least of pretending to.” “Why pretend?” “Because it makes conversation so much more amusing. Sometimes,” she added thoughtfully, “I have a terrible suspicion that there really isn’t an atom of harm in any of them--that they all behave perfectly well, and just excite themselves by talking as if they didn’t.” “And you call that suspicion terrible?” “Well, it makes it all seem a little flat. But then sometimes,” she went on brightly, “one does find out something absolutely hideous.”