“So you say, but what will really happen will be that you will wear that black sequin dress one night at the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, which I hear is very modish these days, and some young man will take a fancy to you, and you will marry him, and then where will I be? I ask you, Foster, where will I be?” “Oh, but, madam, I would never, never leave you!” “Pouf!” said Shelmerdene. “But, talking of that, Foster, how would you like it if I married again? Or if my husband came back? Ah, yes,” said Shelmerdene softly, “if he came back....” Foster did not know what to say. She wanted to ask a few questions. She was a nice girl, but she wanted frightfully to ask a few questions. She whispered: “Do you think, madam, he will?” Shelmerdene looked at her for a long, long time. Shelmerdene’s eyes were blue, they were as blue as night. “I don’t know, Foster. He has been gone a very long time, you know--ten years is a long time, isn’t it? He was a very grim sort of man, let me tell you, and he made a very great mistake. And I was very young, and I made a great mistake. So there you are, Foster. Silly, isn’t it?” And Shelmerdene looked at Foster for a long, long time; but Foster was quite sure that her mistress did not see her. She waited.... “You see, Foster, life is an awful mess, and men are extraordinary. You will notice, when you meet your young man at the Palais de Danse, how very extraordinary men are. They are always jealous about the wrong things ... and now I am thirty-four years old! I am thirty-four years old, Foster! Oh, dear, it is perfectly amazing how soon one becomes thirty-four years old!” And Foster whispered: “And did he go away, madam--just like that?” “Don’t whisper, girl! We are speaking of commonplace things--love--never whisper about love, Foster! All the trouble in the world has come from whispering about love. I saw him going--day by day, night by night, I saw him going, and I let him go. I was too proud, too proud. But I am not proud now. You will, of course, bear me out in that?” “Well, madam, I think you’ve got a great sort of pride--the sort, madam, that lets you let your friends use you as much as they like while you sit down and despise them all by yourself. I’ve watched you often, if I may say so, madam.” “Muddled but pleasant, Foster. But if you had listened to what I was saying instead of thinking out how best you could slander those of my friends you like least, you would have realised I was talking about pride, not dignity. There is too much muck in pride, Foster. Remember that in your wretched moments. But I was very proud then, and I let him go, that queer, grim, good-looking man. He was very good-looking, Foster, in a naval sort of way--but what a fool! Oh, my God, what a fool!” And Foster whispered: “And if he came back now, madam--would you ...?”