She stopped, and when she went on again her face was set like one enduring pain. “So this is the decision to which I have come. If I do anything of a public nature now, I drive my husband from me; on the other hand, if I take a little time, I may be able to save the situation. I need to educate myself, and I’m hoping I may be able to educate him at the same time. If I can get him to read something--if it’s only a few paragraphs everyday--I may gradually change his point of view, so that he will tolerate what I believe. At any rate, I ought to try; I am sure that is the wise and kind and fair thing to do.” “What will you do about the ball?” I asked. “I am going to take him away, out of this rush and distraction, this dressing and undressing, hurrying about meeting people and chattering about nothing.” “He is willing?” “Yes; in fact, he suggested it himself. He thinks my mind is turned, with all the things I’ve been reading, and with Mrs. Frothingham, and Mrs. Allison, and the rest. He hopes that if I go away, I may quiet down and come to my senses. We have a good excuse. I have to think of my health just now---” She stopped, and looked away from my eyes. I saw the colour spreading in a slow wave over her cheeks; it was like those tints of early dawn that are so ravishing to the souls of poets. “In four or five months from now---” And she stopped again. I put my big hand gently over her small one. “I have three children of my own,” I said. “So,” she went on, “it won’t seem so unreasonable. Some people know, and the rest will guess, and there won’t be any talk--I mean, such as there would be if it was rumoured that Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver had got interested in Socialism, and refused to spend her husband’s money.” “I understand,” I replied. “It’s quite the most sensible thing, and I’m glad you’ve found a way out. I shall miss you, of course, but we can write each other long letters. Where are you going?” “I’m not absolutely sure. Douglas suggests a cruise in the West Indies, but I think I should rather be settled in one place. He has a lovely house in the mountains of North Carolina, and wants me to go there; but it’s a show-place, with rich homes all round, and I know I’d soon be in a social whirl. I thought of the camp in the Adirondacks. It would be glorious to see the real woods in winter; but I lose my nerve when I think of the cold--I was brought up in a warm place.” “A ‘camp’ sounds rather primitive for one in your condition,” I suggested. “That’s because you haven’t been there. In reality it’s a big house, with twenty-five rooms, and steam-heat and electric lights, and half a dozen men to take care of it when it’s empty--as it has been for several years.” I smiled--for I could read her thought. “Are you going to be unhappy because you can’t occupy all your husband’s homes?”