She gave me one of her sidelong, flashing glances and sewed with more vigour than appeared necessary. I admired the beautiful curves of her neck and shoulders as she bent over her work. She seemed too strong to wield such an insignificant weapon as a needle. “That's neither here nor there,” she said in reference to my last remark. “I say, I don't look forward to going back to my husband--though why I should say 'going back' I don't know, as he left me--not I him. Anyhow, I'm ready to do it. If it can be managed, I'll cut myself adrift suddenly from Dale. It will be more merciful to him. A man can bear a sudden blow better than lingering pain. If it can't be managed, well, Dale will know nothing at all about it, and both he and I will be saved a mortal deal of worry and unhappiness.” “Suppose” said I, “it can't be managed? Do you propose to keep Dale ignorant of the danger he is running in keeping up a liaison with a married woman living apart from her husband?” She reflected. “If my husband says he'll see me damned first before he'll come back to me, then I'll tell Dale everything, and you can say what you like to him. He'll be able to judge for himself; but in the meanwhile you'll let me have what happiness I can.” I accepted the compromise, and, dispossessing Adolphus, sat down again. I certainly had made progress. Feeling in a benevolent mood, I set forth the advantages she would reap by assuming her legal status; how at last she would shake the dust of Bohemia from off her feet, and instead of standing at the threshold like a disconsolate Peri, she would enter as a right the Paradise of Philistia which she craved; how her life would be one continual tea-party, and how, as her husband had doubtless by this time obtained his promotion, she would be authorised to adopt high and mighty airs in her relations with the wives of all the captains and lieutenants in the regiment. She sighed and wondered whether she would like it, after all. “Here in England I can say 'damn' as often as I choose. I don't say it very often, but sometimes I feel I must say it or explode.” “There are its equivalents in French,” I suggested. She laughed outright. “Fancy my coming out with a _sacre nom de Dieu_ in a French drawing-room!” “Fancy you shouting 'damn' in an English one.” “That's true,” she said. “I suppose drawing-rooms are the same all the world over. I do try to talk like a lady--at least, what I imagine they talk like, for I've never met one.” “You see one every time you look in the glass,” said I. Her olive face flushed. “You mustn't say such things to me if you don't mean them. I like to think all you say to me is true.” “Why in the world,” I cried, “should you not be a lady? You have the instincts of one. How many of my fair friends in Mayfair and Belgravia would have made their drawing-rooms unspeakable just for the sake of not hurting the feelings of Anastasius Papadopoulos?”