“He refused. It was at Cairo, that first time. He said he could not love anyone any more, all his love, his very self, was buried in Marian’s grave. The second time was at Hongkong. Then he said he always had cared for me and still cared for me, but that affection was as nothing compared to his passion for Marian, that he would never marry, and especially he would not marry me because of his regard for me, that I would not be contented or happy with him, that I was thinking of the lad he had been and that boy was buried in his wife’s grave, that he was nothing more than a walking ghost, a wraith of what he had been, a spirit condemned to wander its allotted time on earth until his hour should come and he be called to join Marian. “The third time was in Paris. He said he was indifferent to everything, to anything, to love or hate or death or life; that he cared nothing whether he married me or not. If I cared as much as I seemed to he would marry me to please me. I told him that what I had always wanted was to be with him, that what I most wanted was to spend with him as much as possible of my time until death parted us. He said if that was what I wanted I could have it, but he was nothing more than a shadow of his old self and I was sure to be unhappy. And I am unhappy. He is generosity, gentleness, kindness and consideration itself, but he does not care. I hoped, of course, that his grief for Marian would soften, fade away and vanish, that he would cease to mourn for her, that his interest in life would reawaken, that I could win his love and that we would both be happy. But I am not. His utter indifference to me, to anything, to everything is preying on my feelings, I must do something. I shall lose my mind.” “Is that all?” Vargas asked. “It is enough,” she asserted, “and more than enough. Do you think it a small matter?” “Not in the least,” he declared, “I comprehend your disappointment in respect to your hopes, your chagrin at your baffled efforts to win him back to be his old self, your pain at his inertness. But by your own showing you have no grievance against your husband.” “That I have not,” she maintained. “Not a shadow of a grievance against him. My grievance is for him as much as for myself and against--against the way the world is made.” Vargas looked at her for some little time. “You do not say what you are thinking,” she interrupted. “I am considering how to express it,” he said. “However I express it I am sure to offend you.” “Not a bit,” she replied. “Say it at once.” “You must realize that if I am to advise you truly I must speak plainly,” he hesitated. “I do realize it,” she told him. “You will then pardon what I have to say?” he ventured. “I will pardon anything except beating about the bush,” she rapped out.