“Incredible,” laughed I. “Yes--it does sound so,” conceded she. “But it’s the truth. I had a queer attack--an attack of jealousy. I’d often heard of that sort of thing. I fancied myself above it. Perhaps that was why I fell such a foolish victim. But I’ve recovered completely.” And her eyes were mocking me as if she had a secret joke on me. “It couldn’t last long,” said I, to be saying something. “No, perhaps not,” replied she. “At any rate, as soon as I heard of Mary Kirkwood’s engagement I was cured--instantly cured.” “I told you she was engaged,” said I. “Oh, I don’t mean that Beechman person,” scoffed Edna. “She was simply amusing herself with him. A woman--a woman of our world--might have an affair with a man of that sort--as you men sometimes do with queer women. But she wouldn’t think of _marrying_ him. Marriage is a serious matter.” “Yes, indeed,” said I. “It’s a woman’s whole career,” pursued she. “It means not only her position, but the position of her children, too.” “Very serious,” said I. “No--I mean Mary’s engagement to Count von Tilzer-Borgfeldt.” “I hadn’t heard of it,” said I indifferently. There could be nothing in such a silly story. “Didn’t Bob Armitage tell you?” “Not yet,” said I. “But why should he?” “That’s queer,” mused she. “Perhaps he thought there might be a little something in the talk about you and Mary, and that it would be well not to stir things up.” “That might account for it,” I agreed. She was studying me closely. “I believe you really didn’t care about Mary,” continued she. “I confess I was astonished when I first heard that you did. She’s--” Edna laughed--“hardly up to _me_.” “Hardly,” said I. “But let’s not talk of her. I’ve forgotten all that. I’ve come to make a last proposal to you.” She was smiling, but I detected seriousness in her eyes, in her unsteady upper lip, in her hands trying not to move restlessly. “You don’t realize what a strong hold you have on me, Godfrey. Is it love? Is it habit? I don’t know. But I can’t shake it off. Don’t you think me strange, talking to you in this way?” “Why shouldn’t you?” said I. “It’s more like a woman who isn’t attractive to men.” “On the contrary,” said I. “You speak like a woman accustomed to deal with men according to her own good pleasure.” “How shrewd that is!” said she, with an admiring glance. “How shrewd you are! That’s what I miss in other men--in these men over here who have so much that I admire. But they--well, they give me the feeling that they are superficial. Do you think _I_ am superficial?” “How could I?” said I. “That’s an evasion,” laughed she. “You _do_ think so. And perhaps I am. A woman ought to be. A man looks after the serious side of life. The woman’s side is the lighter and graceful side--don’t you think so?” “That sounds plausible,” said I.