“I took it up at random just now, and became interested in it,” answered Elizabeth. “You are a great reader, I suppose?” “N–no. Hardly, that is. But I am very much alone, and I have read a good deal since I have returned to America.” “Why should a woman like you be alone? Why shouldn’t you go about and see people and live like other women of your age?” Elizabeth made no reply to this; she could scarcely admit that her seclusion was more of her father’s doing than her own. She was struck by the beauty of Clavering’s voice and by the correctness of his speech, which was better than that of many college–bred men. “How long have you been a widow?” he asked. “A year and a half.” “And have you any children?” “No, I lost my only child when he was a baby.” “That’s hard on a woman. You women never forget those dead babies. But all your life is before you yet.” “It seems to me it is all behind me.” “Why? Did you love your husband very much?” Elizabeth had suffered Clavering’s questions partly through surprise and partly because Clavering could say and do what he chose without giving offence—a quality which had been one of the great factors in raising him from the shaft of a mine to a seat in the United States Senate. But the question put to Elizabeth was so unexpected,—it had never been asked of her before,—it was so searching, that it completely disconcerted her. She remained silent, while her eyes, turned upon Clavering, wore a look of trouble and uncertainty. “A great many women don’t love their husbands,” said Clavering, “and if they are left widows, their feelings are very complex. They think they ought to grieve for their husbands, but they don’t.” The color fled suddenly out of Elizabeth’s cheeks. Clavering’s words fitted her case so exactly and so suddenly that she was startled and frightened. It was as if he had looked into her soul and read at a glance her inmost secrets. She half expected him to say next that she had loved another man than her husband. And as for applying the common rules of behavior to a man like Clavering, it was absurd on the face of it. He was leaning toward Elizabeth, his elbow on the arm of his chair, his eyes fixed upon her with a kind of admiring scrutiny. He found her quite as interesting as he had expected, and he ardently desired to know more about her and, what is as great a mark of interest, to tell her more about himself. Elizabeth remained silent for a while, and then forced herself to say: “My husband was one of the best of men. He was as good as my father.”