Precisely in this way Shippen understood Helen, and knew perfectly that Cutter was not the man who could do it. She was invincible, he saw that; stupid, he saw that. And he was enough of a connoisseur in this matter to realize that intelligence would sully this lovely thing. Merriment would be a facial transgression. She was that rare and most mysterious of all creatures, a simply good woman without the self-consciousness they usually feel in their virtues. He kept on with these reflections during dinner, which was served presently. He had no idea what kind of dinner it was. He was assembling plans for a speculation. He had been successful in many lines besides those involving money. “You come to New York occasionally, don’t you, Mrs. Cutter?” he asked, endeavoring to engage her in conversation. “Not that often. I have been there only once,” she told him with a faint smile. She had referred to her wedding journey without naming it. At that time she and George had spent a week in New York. “You liked it, of course?” Shippen went on. “It is like a book with too many pages, too many illustrations, too many quotations, isn’t it?” she evaded. Shippen threw back his handsome black head and laughed. Cutter shot a bright glance at his wife and joined in this applause. He had no idea she could think anything as good as that to say. And she could not have done so if he had asked the question. “What I mean is that one must live there a long time before he could know whether he liked it or not,” she explained. “Well, I think you would,” he answered, meaning some flattery which she did not get. Having said so much, she had nothing else to say. The two men went on with this discussion of New York life. Cutter was determined to let Shippen know that he was no stranger to it--old stuff, such as brokers and buyers get, under the impression that they are bounding up the social ladder of the great metropolis. Shippen heard him give quite frankly his café experiences, not omitting soubrettes. No harm in what he was telling, of course, but as a rule men didn’t do it at home. Once or twice he glanced at Mrs. Cutter, ready to come to heel, change the subject if he saw the faintest shade of annoyance on her face. There was no shade there at all, only a calm, clear look. And this look was fixed on him as if he were a page she read out of the book of this city. Apparently she was indifferent to what Cutter was saying. He decided that she was not jealous of her husband. He wondered if Cutter had the least conception of the kind of woman his wife was. He thought not. Some day she would stand immovable in the way of his ambitions, he decided. In that case what would Cutter do? This was--well, it might prove very interesting. He went on speculating personally along this line.