Yet people who had enjoyed grand passions did exist. "Love, my dear, was invented by the poets to excuse their own weaknesses." Something like that Grandmamma had once observed. Were she alive now and should she make the same remark now, Mary would reply that marriage without love was invented by ... but she was unable to think of a suitable mordant retort before she fell asleep in her own room. * * * * * It seemed as if the death of Lady Flower had acted upon husband and wife like an Horatian maxim that would remind humanity of time's swift flight. In the case of Alison the money they inherited made him feel more keenly how much of his life was being wasted in the pursuit of wealth. There was now no need for him to devote so much of his attention to business, and by taking a partner younger than himself he was able to spend less time in the office. Having once dined out away from home, he began to make a habit of dining out; and Mary in her turn began to wonder what she should do with her life. Occasional dinner-parties and occasional visits to the opera or the theater did not seem enough to fill existence at thirty. There were the children of course, as Jemmie was always reminding her when she seemed inclined to ask unanswerable questions about the end and meaning of human existence. But children, when there were nurses and nurse-maids and governesses and schoolmasters all easily obtainable, did not occupy a woman's life fully. Besides, well-brought-up children went to bed early, and was there nothing better to do with life than sit at home reading novels that were only the least bit less dull than life itself? Jemmie often looked at his reflection in the glass and exclaimed upon the approach of age. But Jemmie was forty-five with a man's life behind him, even if he had been cooped up, as sometimes now in moments of irritation he implied that he had been cooped up by marriage. If Jemmie was concerned about the vanishing years, it was because he looked back with regret to the joys and freedom of his youth. But she, on what could she look back? One kiss briefer than a shooting-star, swifter than a swallow's flight, yet in remembrance, ah, how sweet! So passed the winter of that year; and, when in February the white and purple crocuses pied the lawns of Woodworth Lodge, husband and wife both resolved that the year should pay them with what it brought forth. "One must do something," Mary agreed with Mrs. Wryford, who considered herself Mary's most intimate friend, because she always stayed longer than any of the other visitors that haunted Mary's Friday afternoons.