“Well, _I_ see that it gives a great deal. But I must admit that it takes away something--yes, much--strength from the mind and softness from the heart.” I was astonished at this admission from her--at the admission itself, at the fresh evidences of what a good natural mind she had. But I had no desire to discuss with her. I had long outgrown the folly of discussion with futile people. I was tempted to air my own views of this so-called culture--how it emasculated where it pretended to soften; how it discovered nothing, invented nothing, produced nothing, did not feed, or clothe, or shelter, or in any way contribute to the sane happiness of a human being; how it unfitted men and women for active life, made them pitiful spectators merely, scoffing or smiling superciliously at the battle. But I refrained. I knew she believed the rôle of spectator the only one worthy a lady or a gentleman--and certainly it is the only one either lady or gentleman could take without being exposed as ridiculous. I knew that her wise observations were clever conversation merely, after the manner of futile people--that when the time for action came her snobbishness dominated her. “I wish these men were not so--so----” “Good-for-nothing?” I suggested. She accepted the phrase, though she would have preferred one less mercilessly truthful. “You can’t find everything in one person,” said I. That kind of tame generality--lack of interest thinly veiled in a polite show of interest--kills conversation and sets a tarrying caller to moving where dead silence produces a nervous tendency to linger. Edna extended her arm, resting her hand upon the crook of her parasol in a gesture of approaching departure. Yet she seemed loth to go. She rose, but counterbalanced with: “You know, I suppose, that it’s likely to be Frascatoni?” I rose, replied indifferently, “So I hear.” She stood, smiling vaguely down at the gloved hand on the crook of the parasol. “If I were only younger--or more credulous,” said she. And I knew that there was a thin, sour after-taste to the sparkling wine of the prince’s love-making. I smiled--pleasant, noncommittal. “I ask too much of life,” said she impatiently. “Isn’t it irritating that I should become critical just as I am in a position to get everything I’ve longed for and worked for?” “Those moods pass,” said I. “No doubt,” said she. “Well--good-by.” She put out her hand with a radiant smile. “I’ll not annoy you any more.”