"Oh, when you don't want him--yes. But when don't you want him? You want him when you want to be right, and you want to be right when you mix in a scene like this. I mean," I continued for my private amusement, "when you want to be happy. Happiness, you know, is, to a lady in the full tide of social success, even more becoming than a new French frock. You have the advantage, for your beauty, of being admirably married. You bloom in your husband's presence. I don't say he need always be at your elbow; I simply say that you're most completely yourself when he's not far off. If there were nothing else there would be the help given you by your quiet confidence in his lawful passion." "I'm bound to say," Mrs. Brissenden replied, "that such help is consistent with his not having spoken to me since we parted, yesterday, to come down here by different trains. We haven't so much as met since our arrival. My finding him so indispensable is consistent with my not having so much as looked at him. Indispensable, please, for what?" "For your not being without him." "What then do I do _with_ him?" I hesitated--there were so many ways of putting it; but I gave them all up. "Ah, I think it will be only _he_ who can tell you! My point is that you've the instinct--playing in you, on either side, with all the ease of experience--of what you are to each other. All I mean is that it's the instinct that Long and _his_ good friend must have. They too perhaps haven't spoken to each other. But where he comes she does, and where she comes he does. That's why I know she's among us." "It's wonderful what you know!" Mrs. Brissenden again laughed. "How can you think of them as enjoying the facilities of people in _our_ situation?" "Of people married and therefore logically in presence? I don't," I was able to reply, "speak of their facilities as the same, and I recognise every limit to their freedom. But I maintain, none the less, that so far as they _can_ go, they do go. It's a relation, and they work the relation: the relation, exquisite surely, of knowing they help each other to shine. Why are they not, therefore, like you and Brissenden? What I make out is that when they do shine one will find--though only after a hunt, I admit, as you see--they must both have been involved. Feeling their need, and consummately expert, they will have managed, have arranged." She took it in with her present odd mixture of the receptive and the derisive. "Arranged what?" "Oh, ask _her_!" "I would if I could find her!" After which, for a moment, my interlocutress again considered. "But I thought it was just your contention that _she_ doesn't shine. If it's Lady John's perfect repair that puts that sort of thing out of the question, your image, it seems to me, breaks down." It did a little, I saw, but I gave it a tilt up. "Not at all. It's a case of shining as Brissenden shines." I wondered if I might go further--then risked it. "By sacrifice."