“It’s wonderful,” wrote Sylvia, “the intuition of the Castleman women. We were in the launch, passing one of the viaducts of the new railroad, and Aunt Varina exclaimed, ‘What a wonderful piece of work!’ ‘Yes,’ put in my husband, ‘but don’t let Sylvia hear you say it.’ ‘Why not?’ she asked; and he replied, ‘She’ll tell you how many hours a day the poor Dagoes have to work.’ That was all; but I saw Aunt Varina give a quick glance at me, and I saw that she was not fooled by my efforts to make conversation. It was rather horrid of Douglas, for he knows that I love these old people, and do not want them to know about my trouble. But it is characteristic of him--when he is annoyed he seldom tries to spare others. “As soon as we were alone, Aunt Varina began, ‘Sylvia, my dear, what does it mean? What have you done to worry your husband?’ “You would be entertained if I could remember the conversation. I tried to dodge the trouble by answering off-hand, ‘Douglas had eaten too many turtle-eggs for luncheon ‘--this being a man-like thing, that any dear old lady would understand. But she was too shrewd. I had to explain to her that I was learning to think, and this sent her into a perfect panic. “‘You actually mean, my child, that you are thinking about subjects to which your husband objects, and you refuse to stop when he asks you to? Surely you must know that he has some good reason for objecting.’ “‘I suppose so,’ I said, ‘but he has not made that reason clear to me; and certainly I have a right--’ “She would not hear any more than that. ‘Right, Sylvia? Right? Are you claiming the right to drive your husband from you?’ “‘But surely I can’t regulate all my thinking by the fear of driving my husband from me!’ “‘Sylvia, you take my breath away. Where did you get such ideas?’ “‘But answer me, Aunt Varina--can I?’ “‘What thinking is as important to a woman as thinking how to please a good, kind husband? What would become of her family if she no longer tried to do this?’ “So you see, we opened up a large subject. I know you consider me a backward person, and you may be interested to learn that there are some to whom I seem a terrifying rebel. Picture poor Aunt Varina, her old face full of concern, repeating over and over, ‘My child, my child, I hope I have come in time! Don’t scorn the advice of a woman who has paid bitterly for her mistakes. You have a good husband, a man who loves you devotedly; you are one of the most fortunate of women--now do not throw your happiness away!’ “‘Aunt Varina,’ I said (I forget if I ever told you that her husband gambled and drank, and finally committed suicide) ‘Aunt Varina, do you really believe that every man is so anxious to get away from his wife that it must take her whole stock of energy, her skill in diplomacy, to keep him?’