ts, my ability to ask a
friend or two to luncheon if I choose, and the unfailing comfort of a
taxicab if I'm caught in the rain. They think, if they had my gowns and
my grooming, that they could win and keep love, which seems to be about
all a woman wants. But these things are, in reality, as useless as
painting the house when the thermometer is below zero and you need a
fire inside to warm your hands by. I have imported gowns and real lace
and furs and jewels and all the grooming I'm willing to take, but my
soul is frozen and starved.

"My house," she went on, "isn't a mansion, but it has all the comforts
anyone could reasonably require. As far as my taste can discover, it's
artistic and even unusual. The dinner my cook sends up every night is
as good, or better than any first-class hotel can serve, though it may
not be quite so elaborate.

[Sidenote: The One Thing Lacking]

"I myself am not so bad to look at, I am well dressed, and never untidy.
I am disgustingly well, which is fortunate, for most men hate a sick
woman. If I have a headache I don't speak of it. I neither nag nor fret
nor scold, and I even have a few parlour tricks which other people
consider attractive. For six years, I have given generously and from a
full heart everything he has seemed to require of me.

"I've striven in every way to please him, adapting myself to his tastes.
I've even been the sort of woman men call 'a good fellow,' admiringly
among women and contemptuously among themselves. And, in return, I have
nothing--not even the fairy gold that changes to withered leaves when
you take it into the sunshine."

"You seem to have a good deal, dear--youth and health and strength and
sufficient income. How many women would be glad to have what you have?"

"I want love," cried Edith, piteously. "I want someone to care for
me--to be proud of me for what I am and the little things I can do! If I
painted a hideous dog on a helpless china plate, I'd want someone to
think it was pretty. If I cooked a mess in the chafing-dish or on the
stove, I'd want someone to think it was good, just because I did it! If
I embroidered a red rose on a pink satin sofa cushion, or painted a
Winter scene on a wooden snow-shovel and hung it up in the parlour, I'd
want someone to think it was beautiful. If I wrote a limerick, I'd want
someone to think it was clever. I want appreciation, consideration,
sympathy, affection! I'm starving for love, I'm dying for it, and I'