“I’d meant to keep it secret--I wouldn’t have minded telling him a fib about a little thing. But he made it so very serious!” I could understand that it must have been serious after the telling. I waited for her to add what news she chose. “It seems,” she said, “that my husband has a cousin, a pupil of Mrs. Frothingham’s. You can imagine!” “I can imagine Mrs. Frothingham may lose a pupil.” “No; my husband says his Uncle Archibald always was a fool. But how can anyone be so narrow! He seemed to take Mrs. Frothingham as a personal affront.” This was the most definite bit of vexation against her husband that she had ever let me see. I decided to turn it into a jest. “Mrs. Frothingham will be glad to know she was understood,” I said. “But seriously, why can’t men have open minds about politics and money?” She went on in a worried voice: “I knew he was like this when I met him at Harvard. He was living in his own house, aloof from the poorer men--the men who were most worth while, it seemed to me. And when I told him of the bad effect he was having on these men and on his own character as well, he said he would do whatever I asked--he even gave up his house and went to live in a dormitory. So I thought I had some influence on him. But now, here is the same thing again, only I find that one can’t take a stand against one’s husband. At least, he doesn’t admit the right.” She hesitated. “It doesn’t seem loyal to talk about it.” “My dear girl,” I said with an impulse of candour, “there isn’t much you can tell me about that problem. My own marriage went to pieces on that rock.” I saw a look of surprise upon her face. “I haven’t told you my story yet,” I said. “Some day I will--when you feel you know me well enough for us to exchange confidences.” There was more than a hint of invitation in this. After a silence, she said: “One’s instinct is to hide one’s troubles.” “Sylvia,” I answered, “let me tell you about us. You must realise that you’ve been a wonderful person to me; you belong to a world I never had anything to do with, and never expected to get a glimpse of. It’s the wickedness of our class-civilization that human beings can’t be just human beings to each other--a king can hardly have a friend. Even after I’ve overcome the impulse I have to be awed by your luxury and your grandness; I’m conscious of the fact that everybody else is awed by them. If I so much as mention that I’ve met you, I see people start and stare at me--instantly I become a personage. It makes me angry, because I want to know _you_.”