I looked at her scrutinizingly. No, she was not the least tired; she was as fresh as if that moment risen from a long sleep in the air of seashore or mountains. She went on: “I’m going over to Paris to-morrow. I’ve a lot of engagements there. And I must get some clothes. I’ve worn out all I brought with me.” “Worn out” meant worn once or at most twice; for in a society where everyone is seeing everyone else all the time a woman with a reputation for dress cannot afford to reappear in clothes once seen. In some circles this would sound delightfully prodigal, in others delightfully impossible, and perhaps in still others delightfully criminal. But then all that sort of thing is relative--like everything else in the world. “Won’t you come along?” said she in a perfunctory tone. “No, thanks,” I replied. “I’m off for Russia with a party of bankers to look at some mining properties.” “I thought you were returning to New York?” “Not for several months,” said I. “How can you stay away so long from your beloved America?” “Business--always business.” She eyed me somewhat as one eyes a strange, mildly interesting specimen. “Well--you must enjoy it, or you wouldn’t keep at it year in and year out.” “One has to pass the time,” said I. “How does Mary Kirkwood pass the time?” This unexpected and--except sub-consciously--accidental question, staggered me for an instant. “I don’t know much about it,” said I. “She has a house--and she looks after it, herself. She reads, I believe. She has gardens--and they use up a lot of time. Then she rides.” Edna yawned. “It sounds dull,” she said. “But domestic people are always dull. And she is certainly domestic. I wonder why she doesn’t marry again.” I was silent. “Are any men attentive to her? It seems to me I heard something about a novelist--some poor man who is after her money.” I was choking with rage and jealousy. “Did you see any such man about?” I contrived to compose myself for a calm reply. “No one answering to your description,” said I. “Do you like her?” “You asked me that once before,” said I. “Oh--I forgot. It seems to me you and she would have exactly suited each other. You like domestic women. That is, you think you do. Really, you’d probably fly from a woman of that sort.” “And a woman of the other sort would fly from me,” said I, laughing. She looked at me thoughtfully. “You must admit you’re not easy to get on with--except at a distance,” observed she. “But men of positive individuality are never easy to get on with. A big tree blights all the little trees and bushes that try to grow in its neighborhood.... No, Godfrey dear, you weren’t made for domestic life--you and I. Domestic life is successful only where there are two very small and very much alike. People like us have to live alone.” I rose abruptly. There was for me a sound in that “alone” like the slam of a graveyard gate. “You never will appreciate me--how satisfactory I’ve been,” she went on, “until you marry again.”