And the only feminine autobiographies I have read were written by women who should not have done so. They have been without exception written by some ignobly good woman, with every mean and detestable use of her virtues at the expense of other people, or they were indecent exposures of moral degeneracy and neurasthenic disorders. Good women cannot write their autobiographies. The poor things are inarticulate. They lack the egocentricity essential for such a performance. This statement stands, even if the author eventually publishes some such looking-glass of herself. I would not discourage any woman who is preparing to make of herself a sacrifice wholly acceptable to her husband and family, but it is my honest conviction that it will not pay her in this present world. And that she will wind up like the sundown saint of herself, respected, held in affectionate regard, maybe, but unhonored and unsung. So go ahead with your sacrifice, but do not complain about it. Men, as well as gods, accept sacrifices, but they rarely ever return the compliment. Helen Cutter belonged to this class. The first years of her marriage passed happily enough. She was not too good. She was often exacting in her pretty, soft, white way. But she always produced this impression of whiteness and simplicity. She was in the confidence of her husband to this extent, she knew how rapidly he was forging ahead in business. She marveled at the swiftness with which he turned over money and doubled it. And she never questioned his methods. Then the time came when business engrossed him to the exclusion of every other interest. He was obliged to make frequent trips to money markets in the East and the West. He began to be hurried, preoccupied, irritable. This is the history of many successful men in the married relation. It usually results in the wife’s finding another life of her own, in her children, in social diversions or some other activity. Cutter wished for this solution for his wife. He provided her amply with funds. But it seemed that she did not know how to spend money foolishly. She was invincibly moral about everything. She performed her tea-party duties at regular intervals without any distinction as a hostess, paid a few calls and remained a “home body.” She perceived the change in her husband. He was not now the man she had married. He was no longer even of her class. She could not keep up with him. She knew that she was not even within speaking distance of him, because she could not talk of the things he talked about. Finances, big enterprises, the plays in New York, life in New York. The one bond which might have held them did not exist. She had no children. CHAPTER XI A trivial circumstance finally enlightened her as to the length and breadth of the distance between them.