“Well,” he said slowly, “it seems to me that your coming to me, your state of mind, your trouble, as you have related it all turns upon a piece of femininity to which you should be altogether superior, to which I should have imagined you were altogether superior. You look, and I have always imagined you, free from any trace of the eternal feminine. Here it crops out. Men in general find that women in general have no feeling for the mutuality of a contract. Some women may be exceptions, but women habitually ignore the other side of a contract and see only their own side. Here you display the same defect. Mr. Llewellyn practically proposed a contract to you: on his side he to marry you, on your side, you to put up with his complete indifference to you, to everything, and be content with his actual companionship such as he is. He has fulfilled and is fulfilling his part of the contract, you seek escape from yours.” “I think,” she snapped. “You are insufferably brutal.” “The eternal feminine again,” he retorted. “Worse and more of it. I told you I should offend you.” “You do offend me. I have confidence in you, but I did not come here to be scolded or to be preached at. I do not want criticism, I want advice. Don’t tell me my shortcomings, real or imaginary, think over my troubles and my needs and tell me what to do.” “That is plain enough,” he asserted. “Do your obvious duty. Keep your part of your contract with your husband. Give no sign that you suffer from the absence of feeling of which he warned you. Make the most of your life with him. Hope for a change in him but do not try to force it, do not rebel if it does not come.” “I know I ought to endure,” she wailed. “But I cannot, I must do something. I must act. I must.” “You have asked for my advice,” he said, “and you have it.” “And what good is it to me?” she objected, “I ask for help and you string out platitudinous precepts like a snuffy, detestable old-fashioned evangelical dominie. Is this all the help you can give me?” “All,” said Vargas humbly. “If I knew of any other it should be at your service.” “You could consult your slate for me, as I proposed,” she suggested. “Great heavens above!” he cried, “I have told you that all that is imposture.” “It might turn out genuine for once,” she persisted. “Don’t people have real trances? Don’t many people believe in the answers from slates and planchettes and ouija boards?” “Perhaps they do,” Vargas admitted. “But I never had a real trance, never saw one, never knew of one. And to my knowledge no slate or other such device ever gave any answer or wrote anything unless I or some other shuffler made it write or answer.” “But could you not try just once for my sake,” she implored. “Why on earth,” he demanded, “are you, so sane and sensible in appearance, so set on this mummery?” “Because of the other dream,” she faltered. “The other dream!” he exclaimed. “You had another dream?”