“No—I don’t think either of my candidates would answer to that description,” said Mrs. Fisher after a pause of reflection. “Either? Are there actually two?” “Well, perhaps I ought to say one and a half—for the moment.” Miss Bart received this with increasing amusement. “Other things being equal, I think I should prefer a half-husband: who is he?” “Don’t fly out at me till you hear my reasons—George Dorset.” “Oh——” Lily murmured reproachfully; but Mrs. Fisher pressed on unrebuffed. “Well, why not? They had a few weeks’ honeymoon when they first got back from Europe, but now things are going badly with them again. Bertha has been behaving more than ever like a madwoman, and George’s powers of credulity are very nearly exhausted. They’re at their place here, you know, and I spent last Sunday with them. It was a ghastly party—no one else but poor Neddy Silverton, who looks like a galley-slave (they used to talk of my making that poor boy unhappy!)—and after luncheon George carried me off on a long walk, and told me the end would have to come soon.” Miss Bart made an incredulous gesture. “As far as that goes, the end will never come—Bertha will always know how to get him back when she wants him.” Mrs. Fisher continued to observe her tentatively. “Not if he has any one else to turn to! Yes—that’s just what it comes to: the poor creature can’t stand alone. And I remember him such a good fellow, full of life and enthusiasm.” She paused, and went on, dropping her glance from Lily’s: “He wouldn’t stay with her ten minutes if he KNEW——” “Knew——?” Miss Bart repeated. “What YOU must, for instance—with the opportunities you’ve had! If he had positive proof, I mean——” Lily interrupted her with a deep blush of displeasure. “Please let us drop the subject, Carry: it’s too odious to me.” And to divert her companion’s attention she added, with an attempt at lightness: “And your second candidate? We must not forget him.” Mrs. Fisher echoed her laugh. “I wonder if you’ll cry out just as loud if I say—Sim Rosedale?” Miss Bart did not cry out: she sat silent, gazing thoughtfully at her friend. The suggestion, in truth, gave expression to a possibility which, in the last weeks, had more than once recurred to her; but after a moment she said carelessly: “Mr. Rosedale wants a wife who can establish him in the bosom of the Van Osburghs and Trenors.” Mrs. Fisher caught her up eagerly. “And so YOU could—with his money! Don’t you see how beautifully it would work out for you both?” “I don’t see any way of making him see it,” Lily returned, with a laugh intended to dismiss the subject.