“No, you think you do, you would die for him, of course, but you don’t love him. You happen to have chosen him for an emotional centre, every woman, if she is a woman, has to find an emotional centre, but she does not always choose well. Edmund, like all geniuses, is self-centred without being selfish; you understand me; he is to be regarded as exempt from the ordinary responsibilities of humanity, morally and otherwise. He is quite willing to be worshipped--what man is not? but he has no time to worship, or be aux petits soins with anybody. He could not, if he liked, make any woman happy, certainly not a passionate woman. She could never exist long in the rarefied spiritual atmosphere into which dear Edmund would want to lift her, where he lives--and flourishes. He can feel, of course, the big things, but he has, as it were, no small change of emotion at any one’s service. And he doesn’t, on his side, ask for anything. He is sufficient unto himself. Did you not observe, when you were with him, how he accepted your devotion, but made no demands on it!” “He let me rub his colours for him!” Mrs. Elles said, laughing. “Do you mean to say you did not feel the curious sense of aloofness, of want of sympathy with poor humanity, that the consciousness of a mission--even an art mission--seems to bring with it? Not for humanity’s woes; no one can be kinder than Edmund, if you are in real trouble, but he is the kind of man who would never notice if you had cut your finger, or had got a new frock on. Now woman wants more than that here below--at least I think so!” She laughed, Mrs. Elles was wondering how she could talk like this about the man she cared for. “I am being very didactic, I fear,” Egidia said suddenly. “And boring you.” “No, no,” said the other vehemently. “I love discussing people. I have noticed all you say in Mr. Rivers, but still---- And do you know,” she went on eagerly, “all the men who speak of him seem very fond of him, so is it only women he snubs?” “Oh, men like him and respect him, but they don’t slap him on the back, and confide their pleasant weaknesses to him! He is manly enough, but I don’t know how it is, he is quite out of it in the smoking-room.” “He is very much at home in a woman’s boudoir, at all events!” said Mrs. Elles, a little bitterly. “You mean mine,” the other replied with her usual directness. “Well, he is my cousin, and he knows I like to hear him discuss the only subject he cares to discuss--art. He tells me his ideas for new mediums and the experiments he is making. He laments the volatility of the prettiest colours, such as aureoline, and the impracticability of Nature as a model. We never talk of anything more personal than that, and all he condescends to look at here is a sunset over Westminster as we see it from my windows.”