"Not washing our soiled linen in public," Edith explained. "While I live with my husband as his wife, we stand together before the world as far as it is in my power to manage it. I do not intentionally criticise him to anyone, nor permit anyone to criticise him. I endeavour to look ahead, protect him against his own weakness or folly, and, as far as a woman's tact and thought may do, shield him from the consequences of his own mistakes. I lie for him whenever necessary or even advisable. I have tried to be, for six years, shelter, strength, comfort, courage. And," she concluded bitterly, "I've failed." "How so?" "We live in the same house, but alien and apart. We talk at the table as two strangers might in a crowded restaurant or hotel, that is, when he's there. I dare not ask people to dinner, for I never know whether he's coming or not. He might promise faithfully to come, and then appear at midnight, without apology or excuse." [Sidenote: All Sorts of Subterfuges] "He supports you," suggested Madame, glancing at the sea-green crêpe. "Yes, of course. That is, the question of money hasn't arisen between us, one way or another. I have no children, father and mother left me plenty of money, and I don't mind using it in any way that seems advisable. In fact, if I had to, I'd rather pay the household bills than beg for money, as many a wife is compelled to do--or, for that matter, even ask for it. It isn't as if I had to earn it myself, you know. If I had to, I'd probably feel differently about it, but, as it is, money doesn't matter between us at all. "Friends of mine," she resumed, "have to resort to all sorts of subterfuges. I know women who bribe the tradespeople to make their bills larger than they should be and give them the difference in cash. I know men who seem to think they do their wives a favour by paying for the food they themselves eat, and by paying their own laundry bills. Then, every once in a while, I see in some magazine an article written by a man who wonders why women prefer to work in shops and factories, rather than to marry. It must be better to get a pay-envelope every Saturday night without question or comment, than it is to humiliate your immortal soul to the dust it arose from, begging a man for money to pay for the dinner he ate last night, or for the price of a new veil to cover up your last year's hat." [Sidenote: Defiance] "All this," said Madame, threading her needle again, "is new to me. I live so out of the world, that I know very little of what is going on outside." "Happy woman! Perhaps I should be happy, also, since this particular phase of the problem doesn't concern me. Money may not be your best friend, but it's the quickest to act, and seems to be favourably recognised in more places than most friends are. For the size of it, a check book is about the greatest convenience I know of."