No other woman in the world will have taught him how to make love.

Any girl ought to be pleased with a husband like that! She would not
have to worry her head about "where" he learnt to be so attractive, and
sympathetic, and tactful, and companionable, and to give all the right
sort of little presents and to say all the right kind of pretty things.
She would not have to feel that he must have been "trained" through love
affairs of every kind, class and age. She would not have to catch, in
his speech, little "tags" of pointed, descriptive, feminine expression;
she wouldn't have to wonder: What girl used he to hear saying that? Ah,
no! The wife of a man like Mr. Reginald Brace wouldn't be made to feel
like purring with pleasure over the deft way he tied the belt of her
sports coat and pinned in her collar at the back or put her wrap about
her shoulders at the end of the second act--she wouldn't have to
remember: "Some woman must have taught him to be so nice in these
'little ways' that make all the difference to us women...."

There'd be none of all this about Mr. Brace. I should be the first--the
one--the only Love! Oughtn't that thought to be enough to please and
gratify any girl?

And I am gratified....

I must be gratified.

If I haven't been feeling gratified all this time, it's simply because
I've been so "rushed" with the worry of Miss Million's disappearance,
and of all that business about the detective, and the missing ruby. (I
wonder, by the way, if we have heard the last of all that business?)

Anybody would like a young man like Mr. Brace! Even Aunt Anastasia, when
she came to know him. Even she would rather I were a bank manager's wife
than that I went on being a lady's-maid for the rest of my life....

"And, besides, I'm not like poor Million, who's allowed her affections
to get all tangled up in the direction of the sort of young man who'd
make the worst husband in the world," I thought, idly, as I turned my
head more comfortably on the cushion. "Poor dear! If she married Mr.
Jessop, it would be better for her. But still, she would be giving her
hand to one man, while her heart had been--well, 'wangled,' we'll say,
by another. How dreadful to have to be in love with a man like that
mercenary scapegrace of a Jim Burke! How any girl could be so foolish as
to give him one serious thought----"

Here I gave up thinking at all. With my eyes shut I just basked, to the
tune of the bees booming in t