He finished dinner, lighted a cigarette--sat back watching me with a mysterious smile, half amused, wholly sympathetic, upon his handsome face, younger than his forty-five years--for he was considerably older than I. I was hardly more than barely conscious of that look of his, or of his presence. Suddenly I struck my fist with violence upon the arm of my chair. And I said: “I _will_ do something! It is _not_ hopeless!” He shook his head slowly, at the same time exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I tried, Godfrey,” said he, “and I had a better chance of success than you could possibly have. For my wife had been brought up by a sensible father and mother in a sensible way, and she had been used to fashionable society all her life and, when I married her, seemed to have proved herself immune. A few years and--” His cynical smile may not have been genuine. “She leads the simpletons. But you’ll see for yourself.” “When you know what to do, and feel as you do,” said I, “why did you suggest our going into your society?” “It isn’t mine,” laughed he. “It’s my wife’s. It doesn’t belong to the men. It belongs to the women.” “Into your wife’s society?” persisted I. “Why did I suggest it? Because I wished to please you, and I know you like to please your wife. And she’s an American woman--therefore, society mad. She has her daughter at the Ryper joint, hasn’t she?” I sat morosely silent. “Oh, come now! Cheer up!” cried he, with laughing irony. “After all, you can’t blame the American woman. She has no training for the career of woman. She has no training for any serious career. She’s got to do something, hasn’t she? Well, what is there open to her but the career of lady? That doesn’t call for brains or for education or for taste. The dressmaker and milliner supply the toilet. The architect and decorator and housekeeper and staff supply the grand background. Father or husband supplies the cash. A dip into a novel or book of culture essays supplies the gibble-gabble. A nice easy profession, is lady--and universally admired and envied. No, Loring, it isn’t fair to blame her.” We strolled down Fifth Avenue. After he had watched the stream of elegant carriages and automobiles, some of the too elegant automobiles having their interiors brightly lighted that the passersby might not fail to see the elaborate toilets of the occupants--after he had observed this procession of extravagance and vanity, with only an occasional derisive laugh or “Look there! Don’t miss that lady!” he burst out again in his pleasantly ironical tone: “How fat the women are getting!--the automobile women! And how the candy shops are multiplying. Candy and automobiles!--and culture. Let us not forget culture.” “No, indeed,” said I grimly. “Let’s not forget the culture.”