‘Especially to talk to,’ replied Isabel mildly. ‘As a matter of fact, a man wants both sorts--a Martha-wife and a Mary-wife: the Martha-wife to air the beds and order the dinner, and the Mary-wife to look at and talk to. Most of the tragedies in history have arisen from a man’s failure to get the two in one person. Lucky men have an aunt or a sister, as well as a wife, to fill the second part; but generally a man either has a Mary-wife who talks brilliantly, but feeds him on cold mutton, or a Martha-wife who will order a good dinner, but can only talk about the servants. And then he looks round for someone to think about meals, while Mary discusses the soul; or to discuss the soul while Martha is interviewing the cook. And then there are complications. The whole system is wrong. People ought to be much freer to get what they like.’ Kingston resented Isabel’s tranquil description of the Martha-wife. It had nothing to do with any case they knew of. To talk about it was silly impertinence. ‘Individualism again,’ he answered. ‘You are an anarchist, Isabel, like all egoists. Anarchy never pays in the long run.’ ‘No,’ admitted Isabel, ‘one has to pay for it in the long run, of course. But until the bill comes in one has a good time--quite worth the price one has to give.... Ask the lady behind you. There is a triumphant instance of the Mary-wife, and the egoist, and the individualist, all in one. She died for it at last, but she had all she wanted while she lived. That is me; I’ll die gladly, but I mean to have all I want till then.’ Kingston turned to look at the picture to which Isabel pointed. From a background as dark as her end there smiled out at him, enigmatically, whimsically, the face, so much more prudish than passionate, of a woman so much more passionate than prudish--the face of Anne, “Marquis” of Pembroke, concubine and Queen. ‘So there is your model,’ he answered her contemptuously. ‘Well, she had her way, and her way led her to the block on Tower Green.’ ‘Let it. What does that matter? It had led her first over the scarlet cloth of a throne. The price was heavy, yes, but she always knew it would be. I expect she was even glad to die at last, and have rest, and be out of all her glorious, dreadful suspense. And the splendour she bought was worth it. What do I care for the bill I may have to settle some day? If I want a thing, that means I intend to have it. Do you think a beggarly consideration of economy would stop me? Thank Heavens, I am not a miser. Why, to haggle over Fate’s account would be like Gundred wrestling for a twopenny discount off a pillow-case. No, Queen Anne and I know better, don’t we, your Grace?’