“No, of course not,” he admitted. “And then, when you realized that you were--inconveniently situated, you decided to imitate _Nora_ in the ‘Doll’s House,’ and get out? Is that it?” “Well, yes; but--” “So you explained to your husband how you felt, and left him?” “I didn’t exactly explain; my thoughts seemed to be all mixed up: I thought it would be better to write, after I’d thought a little more.” Again she allowed the glory of her eyes to be her best apologist. “I was going to write as soon as I’d had a talk with you. You see, I came away only two hours ago, and Harry--my husband--will just think I’ve gone to visit somewhere.” Her beauty made a confident appeal that he would sanction her position. But Hallton looked out of the window. “And what do you expect to do to earn your living,” he asked, “now that you’ve decided to quit being a parasite?” It was cruelly unfamiliar ground, this necessity he put upon her of answering questions with mere words; she had become accustomed to use glances as a final statement of her position, as a full and sufficient answer for any question that a man could ask her. Nevertheless, she drew herself together and addressed Hallton’s unappreciative profile: “My husband will give me an allowance, I’m sure, until I decide on some suitable occupation; or, if he is mean enough not to, there’ll be alimony or--or something like that, won’t there?” Her eyebrows began to arch a little as Hallton continued to look out of the window, and her lips lost some of their softness. “That is one of the things I wished to speak to you about,” she explained. “I thought perhaps I might take up writing, and I thought you might tell me the best way to begin.” Hallton put one hand to his forehead. “However, of course the most important thing,” she resumed steadily, “is for me to live my own life. That’s what I’ve come to realize: I must express myself, I must be free. Why, I didn’t know I had a soul until I found myself alone a short time ago in the little room that I had rented myself, all for myself. I’ve been a chattel--yes, a chattel!” Her voice quavered; she hesitated, waiting for at least a glance of encouragement. “I hoped you’d understand, that you’d advise me,” she murmured. “I’m afraid I’m frightfully helpless; I’ve always been that way.” “My God! yes, madam!” he exploded, facing her; “I should think you were!” She made no reply; she did not even show surprise by a change of expression; she simply sat up very straight and faced him with the look of clear-eyed intelligence that she had found best suited to situations utterly beyond her comprehension. She waited, calm-browed, level-eyed, judicious-mouthed, for him to explain, to apologize. “I beg your pardon,” he said. Her silence demanded more.