“Oh, yes,” replied Clytie drily. “I know. He is all perfection. But the man doesn't live who is fit to black your boots, my child. I did not mean that; I meant that you were a lucky girl in having eluded your obvious destiny.” Winifred looked at her open-eyed. “I always used to think somewhat sadly about you,” Clytie went on. “I seemed to read in your face and eyes that you would marry a man quite unworthy of you, who would ill treat you, and that you would love him more as he became worse, that your life would be a dreadful, purposeless sacrifice. And now you see how you have escaped. Victor is just the husband I could have picked out for you. So you are a lucky girl.” “I wish you were as happy as I am, darling,” said Winifred, looking at her somewhat wistfully through her own gladness. “Perhaps I am,” replied Clytie, with a flush. “Who knows? Utter completion of existence is not possible in this imperfect world of ours; and if my life has its gaps that ache a little, yet it has its fulness, believe me, dear. I am happier now than I have ever been. After all, the gaps matter very little.” “Now you are getting somewhat beyond me,” said Winifred. “I can't quite follow you.” “Ah, you needn't, Winnie dear,” replied Clytie. “Only go on loving and trusting me. Don't you see that I am happy because I too have a good man's love?” “But if--if you had been--if things were different--you might have married,” said Winifred hesitatingly. “That does not make the love less beautiful and life-giving,” replied Clytie.