“Do you know, I think you ought to have _made_ room,” he said at last, decisively. Cecily turned her face slowly towards him. “You are right, Dick,” she said. “I ought.” “Why didn’t you?” “Oh, why didn’t I? Why didn’t I?” she repeated, a little wildly. Her voice shook, and she threw the buttercup aside with a nervous movement. “Why is one always a fool till it’s too late to be wise? Life’s such a difficult thing to manage.” “I agree.” “Especially with love thrown in as a handicap.” He glanced at her swiftly. “Is it a handicap?” “For a woman--yes.” She was bitter enough now. “Why?” “Because the whole thing means so much more to her than it does to a man.” “Not in every case.” She glanced at him hurriedly, and her voice softened. “Generally,” she said, “it means so much to a woman that, like a fool, she throws overboard all that reason, common-sense, judgment, urge her to keep. And the ship sails splendidly at first----” She paused. “And after a time?” suggested Mayne. “Oh, it still sails splendidly!” she exclaimed, with a laugh. “But it sails on without her. She’s left struggling in the sea--or stranded on the first desert island.” “And,” said Mayne in a business-like tone, “with proper management you think there need never have been an island?” “Not a _desert_ island.” “But the desert island can be cultivated, Cis.” “Yes--now,” said Cecily, drearily. “There’s no barrier now--except my lack of heart to do it.” Mayne was glad of the personal pronoun. They were coming to close quarters. “Was there ever a barrier?” he inquired. “Yes,” she said, with unexpected suddenness. “Robert didn’t like it.” Mayne slowly raised his head, and their eyes met. He was silent. “Oh, I know what you’d like to say!” cried Cecily, hurriedly; “but it’s no use arguing about it. Most men regard their wives, so long as they’re in love with them, in an absolutely primitive way--there’s no getting out of it--they _do_. For every other woman, freedom, individuality, the ‘exercise of her own gifts,’ of course. For a man’s wife, while he loves her, no life but his. She belongs to him, body and soul. He is jealous of every interest in which he is not concerned. And because his love means so much to her, because she _can’t_ realize that one day it may go, a woman yields; she lets all her interests go down the wind; she is what he wants her to be.” She paused a moment in her rapid speech. Mayne made no sign, and she went on in a voice that shook a little. “And perhaps, if it lasted so, she would be content. But it _doesn’t_ last. And it’s the woman who’s shipwrecked. Beautiful new countries, full of interest, for him. For her--nothing but the desert island.” Mayne was still silent. He was following, with a stalk of grass, the distracted movements of a ladybird.