“Yes, I never tried to understand you in the old days. I had never met your sort of woman before, and didn't trouble to think about you except as a beautiful being to love. I was too busy thinking about myself,” he smiled. “I wondered, without understanding it, where you got your strength, why everything you touched seemed to turn to order and helpfulness under your hands. I think now it is because you are always so true to life--to the things life really means. Every one always approves and upholds you, because in you the race itself is expressed, not merely one of its sports, as with me.” She looked a little puzzled. “Do you mean, dearest, because I have children?” “No, Beautiful, any one can do that. I mean because you have in perfect balance and control all the qualities that should be passed on to children, if the race is to be happy. You are so divinely normal, Mary, that's what it is, and yet you are not dull.” “Oh, I'm afraid I am,” smiled Mary, “rather a bromide, in fact.” He shook his head, with his old brilliant smile. “No, dearest, nobody as beautiful and as vital as you can be dull to any one who is not out of tune with life. I used to be that, so I'm afraid I thought you so, now and then.” “I know you did,” she laughed, “and I thought you fearfully erratic.” He laughed back. They had both passed the stage in which the truth has power to hurt. “I remember Mr. Gunther talking to me a little as you have been doing,” she recalled, “when he came to model me. I don't quite understand either of you. I think you're just foolishly prejudiced in my favor because you admire me.” “What about the Farradays, and Constance, and the Sparrow and Lily and Henrik and McEwan and the Havens and Madame Corriani and--” “Oh, stop!” she laughed, covering his mouth with her hand. “And even in Paris,” he concluded, holding the hand, “Adolph, and--yes, and Felicity Berber. Are they all 'prejudiced in your favor'?” “Why do you include the last named?” she asked, rather low. It was the first time Felicity had been spoken of between them. “She threw me over, Mary, the hour she discovered how it was with you,” he said quietly. “That was rather decent of her. I'm glad you told me that,” she answered after a pause. “All this brings me to what I really want to say,” he continued, still holding her hand in his. “You are so alive, you _are_ life; and yet you're chained to a half-dead man.” “Oh, don't, dearest,” she whispered, deeply distressed. “Yes, let me finish. I shan't last very long, my dear--two or three years, perhaps--long enough to say what I must about France. I want you to go on living to the full. I want you to marry again, Mary, and have more beautiful, strong children.” “Oh, darling, don't! Don't speak of such things,” she begged, her lips trembling. “I've finished, Beautiful. That's all I wanted to say. Just for you to remember,” he smiled. Her arms went round him. “You're bad,” she whispered, “I shan't remember.”