“But I grow tired of superficial men. They give me the feeling that--well, that they couldn’t be relied on. And you are reliable, Godfrey. I feel about you that no matter what happened you’d be equal to it. And that’s why I don’t want to give you up.” I sat with my eyes down, as if I were listening and reflecting. “Since you’ve been over here long enough to--to broaden a little-- You don’t mind my saying you’ve broadened?” “It’s true,” said I. “I’ve fancied perhaps you might be seeing that I wasn’t altogether wrong in my ideas?” “Yes?” said I, as she hesitated. “Margot was telling me about some plans you had--for living on the other side. You weren’t in earnest?” I looked at her gravely. “Very much in earnest,” said I. “I shall never again, in any circumstances, live as we used to live.” She sank back in her chair, slowly turned her parasol round and round. “Then--it’s hopeless,” said she, with a sigh that was a sob also. And the look in the eyes she lifted to mine went straight to my heart. “I simply can’t stand America,” said she. “It reminds me of--” She rose impatiently. “If you only knew, Godfrey, how I _loathe_ my origin--the dreadful depth we came from--the commonness of it.” She shuddered. “Europe is the place for you,” said I. “Yes, it is,” cried she. “And we could be happy over here--if you’d only see it in the right light. Godfrey, I don’t want to--to change. Won’t you compromise?” “By conceding everything?” said I good-humoredly. “By becoming the bedraggled tail to your gay and giddy kite?” “You simply won’t reason about these things!” exclaimed she. “Yet they say men are reasonable!” “My dear Edna, I don’t ask you to make yourself wretched for _my_ sake. And I don’t purpose to be wretched for _your_ sake.” She sat down again. The brightness had faded from her. She looked older than I’d have believed she could. “Well--I see it’s useless,” she said finally. “And as I’ve got to stay over here, I simply must marry again. You understand that?” “Perfectly,” said I. “Don’t you care the least bit?” said she wistfully. “You wish me to be unhappy about it,” laughed I, “to gratify your vanity.” She sighed again. “You are content with the settlements?” “Oh, yes,” said she wearily. No doubt you, gentle reader, are now completely won over to her and think that the least I could in decency have done would have been to insist on her accepting half my fortune. I had no impulse toward that folly. There is a kind of wife who can justly claim that she is the equal partner in her husband’s wealth. But not the Edna kind. I had made my fortune in spite of her. Nor was I keen to give her any more money than I should be compelled; why turn over wealth to her to fritter away and to bolster the pretensions of a family of worthless Italian aristocrats? With a sudden darting look at me, she said: “You know Frascatoni. What do you think of him?” “A fine specimen,” said I. “A fascinating man.”