dd, is the attitude of Benis himself. He
is quite alive, painfully so, to the drift of the thing. Yet he does
nothing. And this is not in keeping with his character. He is the type
of man who, in spite of an unassertive manner, holds what he has with
no uncertain grasp. Why, then, does he let this one thing go? The
logical deduction is that he knows that he never had it. All of which,
being interpreted, means that things may happen here through the sheer
inertia of other things. Almost every day I think, 'Something ought to
be done.' But I know I shall never do it. I am not the novelist's
villainess who arranges a compromising situation and produces the
surprised husband from behind a door. Neither am I a peacemaker or an
altruist. I am not selfish enough in one way nor un-selfish enough in
another. (Probably that is why life has lost interest in my special
case.) Even my emotions are hopelessly mixed. There are times when I
find myself viciously hoping that Madam Composure will go the limit and
that right quickly. And there are other times when I feel I should like
to choke her into a proper realization of what she is risking. Not for
her sake--I'm far too feminine for that--but because I hate to see her
play with this man (whom I like myself) and get away with it."

It is worth while remembering the closing sentences of this letter.
They explain, or partially explain, a certain future action on the part
of the writer, which might otherwise seem out of keeping with her well
defined attitude of "Mary first."

CHAPTER XXXIII

"There is one thing which I simply do not understand." Miss Davis dug
the point of a destructive parasol into the well-kept gravel of the
drive and allowed a glance of deep seriousness to drift from under the
shadow of her hat. Unfortunately, her companion was not attending.

It was the day of Mrs. Burton Jones' garden party, the Bainbridge event
for which Miss Davis was, presumably, staying over. Mary, in a new
frock of sheerest grey and most diaphanous white, and a hat which lay
like a breath of mist against the gold of her hair, had come down
early. In the course of an observant career, she had learned that, in
one respect at least, men are like worms. They are inclined to be
early. Mary had often profited by this bit of wisdom, and was glad that
so few other women seemed to realize its importance. One can do much
with ten or fifteen uninterrupted minutes.

But today Mary had not done