"But not as we are! Do you read the papers? Well, then, do you understand how a woman must feel to have her husband continually made the butt of foolish, absurd, untrue stories--as though he were a performing poodle! I--I'm sick of that, too, for another thing. Week after week, month by month, unpleasant things have been accumulating; and they're getting too heavy, Gerald--too crushing for my shoulders. . . . Men call me restless. What wonder! Women link my name with any man who is k-kind to me! Is there no excuse then for what they call my restlessness? . . . What woman would not be restless whose private affairs are the gossip of everybody? Was it not enough that I endured terrific publicity when--when trouble overtook me two years ago? . . . I suppose I'm a fool to talk like this; but a girl must do it some time or burst!--and to whom am I to go? . . . There was only one person; and I can't talk to--that one; he--that person knows too much about me, anyway; which is not good for a woman, Gerald, not good for a good woman. . . . I mean a pretty good woman; the kind people's sisters can still talk to, you know. . . . For I'm nothing more interesting than a _divorcee_, Gerald; nothing more dangerous than an unhappy little fool. . . . I wish I were. . . . But I'm still at the wheel! . . . A man I know calls it hard steering but assures me that there's anchorage ahead. . . . He's a splendid fellow, Gerald; you ought to know him--well--some day; he's just a clean-cut, human, blundering, erring, unreasonable,lovable man whom any woman, who is not a fool herself, could manage. . . . Some day I should like to have you know him--intimately. He's good for people of your sort--even good for a restless, purposeless woman of my sort. Peace to him!--if there's any in the world. . . . Turn your back; I'm sniveling." A moment afterward she had calmed completely; and now she stole a curious side glance at the boy and blushed a little when he looked back at her earnestly. Then she smiled and quietly withdrew the hand he had been holding so tightly in both of his. "So there we are, my poor friend," she concluded with a shrug; "the old penny shocker, you know, 'Alone in a great city!'--I've dropped my handkerchief." "I want you to believe me your friend," said Gerald, in the low, resolute voice of unintentional melodrama. "Why, thank you; are you so sure you want that, Gerald?" "Yes, as long as I live!" he declared, generous emotion in the ascendant. A pretty woman upset him very easily even under normal circumstances. But beauty in distress knocked him flat--as it does every wholesome boy who is worth his salt. And he said so in his own naive fashion; and the more eloquent he grew the more excited he grew and the deeper and blacker appeared her wrongs to him.