Edna became a crank on the subject of food--what is called a crank by the unthinking, of whom, by the way, I was to my lasting regret one until a few years ago. For a year or two her moves in this important direction were blundering, intermittent, and not always successful--small wonder when there is really no reliable information to be had, the scientists being uncertain and the doctors grossly ignorant. But gradually she evolved and lived upon a “beauty diet.” Margot, of course, had to do the same. She took exercises morning and night, took long and regular walks for the figure and skin and to put clearness and brightness into the eyes. I believe she and Margot, with occasional lapses, keep up their regimen to this day. The house was as slattern as ever. The diet and comfort and health of the family bread-winner were no more the subject of thought and care than--well, than the next husband’s to his wife. She gave some attention--intelligent and valuable attention, I cheerfully concede--to improving my speech, manners, and dress. But beyond that the revolution affected only her and her daughter. Them it affected amazingly. In three or four months the change in their appearance was literally beyond belief. Edna’s beauty and style came back--no, burst forth in an entirely new kind of radiance and fascination. As for little Margot, she transformed from homeliness, from the scrawny pasty look of bad health, from bad temper, into as neat and sweet and pretty a little lady as could be found anywhere. You, gentle reader, who are ever ready to slop over with some kind of sentimentality because in your shallowness you regard sentimentality--not sentiment, for of that you know nothing, but sentimentality--as the most important thing in the world, just as a child regards sickeningly rich cake as the finest food in the world--you, gentle reader, have already made up your mind why Edna thus suddenly awakened, or, rather, reawakened. “Aha,” you are saying. “Served him good and right. She found some one who appreciated her.” That guess of yours shows how little you know about Edna or the Edna kind of human being. The people who do things in this world, except in our foolish American novels, do because they must. They may do better or worse under the influence of love, which is full as often a drag as a spur. But they do not _do_ because of love. I shall not argue this. I shrink from gratuitously inviting an additional vial of wrath from the ladies, who resent being told how worthless they in their indolence and self-complacence permit themselves to be and how small a positive part they now play in the world drama. I should have said nothing at all about the matter, were it not that I wish to be strictly just to Edna, and she, being wholly the ambitious woman, has always had and still has a deep horror of scandal, intrigue, irregularity, and unconventionality of every sort.