“I’ve come to discuss our affairs--not malicious newspaper gossip,” said I, fighting for my usual manner of good-humored raillery. “First, tell me what is the meaning of this outburst of affection for me? Aren’t you satisfied with the settlements?” “Oh, Godfrey, what a cynic you are!” laughed she. Then with an air of earnestness that certainly was convincing, she said: “Can’t you _feel_ that I love you?” “I cannot,” replied I blandly. “On the contrary, I _know_ that you care nothing about me. So let’s talk business as we always have.” She did not rave and vow and swear. She did not show the least excitement. She seated herself and, fixing upon me a look which I can only describe as tenacious, she said: “Whether you believe me or not, I love you. And I shall not give you up.” My internal agitation instantly cleared away. I am always nervous about crossing a bridge until my foot touches it; thenceforth I am too busy crossing to bother about myself. “Well--what do you propose?” said I. “To be your wife,” replied she. “To show you how sorry I am for the way I have acted, to show you by thinking only of making you happy.” “Yes? And what will you _do_ to make me happy?” “Look after your comfort--your home, Godfrey.” “But you don’t know about that sort of thing,” said I. “You know only how to make a house attractive to other people. You are far too fine for a private housekeeper.” “I shall learn,” said she sweetly. “Those things are not difficult.” I smiled at this unconscious confession of incapacity to learn the most difficult of all the arts. “You will practice on me, eh? Thank you--but no. You wouldn’t make me comfortable. You’d only harass yourself and deprive me of comfort--and for years. ‘Those things’ are less easy than you imagine. You are set in your ways, I in mine.” “You don’t realize,” protested she confidently. “You must be lonely, Godfrey. You need companionship--sympathy. I can give it to you now--for, I am awake at last. I know my own mind and heart.” I shook my head. “That sounds well, but what does it _mean_? Next door to nothing, my friend. You and I are not interested in the same things. We’ve nothing to talk about. I don’t know the things you know--the social, the fashionable side of life. You don’t know my side of life--and you couldn’t and wouldn’t learn enough to interest me. Any forced interest you might give would bore me. Pardon my frankness, but this is no time for polite falsehoods. The fact is we’ve outgrown each other. When we look out of our eyes, each of us sees an entirely different world; and neither of us cares about or even believes in the other’s world. We talk, only to irritate. We are absolutely and finally apart. It would be impossible for us to live together.”