t-painting. Charming lady sits for portrait, painter takes up his
brushes, arranges his palette, seeks inspiration,--what is below the
surface?--something intangible to divine, seize, and affix to his
canvas. He seeks to know the soul; he seeks how? As a man in love seeks,
naturally. The more he imagines himself in love, the more completely
does the idea obsess him from morning to night--plain as the nose on
your face. Only there are other portraits to paint. Enter the wife."

"Charming," said Stibo, who had not ceased twining his mustaches in his
pink fingers.

"Ah, that's the point. What of the wife?" said Steingall, violently.

"The wife--the ideal wife, mind you--is then the weapon, the refuge. To
escape from the entanglement of his momentary inspiration, the artist
becomes a man: my wife and _bonjour_. He returns home, takes off the
duster of his illusion, cleans the palette of old memories, washes away
his vows, protestations, and all that rot, you know, lies down on the
sofa, and gives his head to his wife to be rubbed. Curtain. The comedy
is over."

"But that's what they don't understand," said Steingall, with
enthusiasm. "That's what they will _never_ understand."

"Such miracles exist?" said Towsey with a short, disagreeable laugh.

"I know the wife of an artist," said Quinny, "whom I consider the most
remarkable woman I know--who sits and knits and smiles. She is one who
understands. Her husband adores her, and he is in love with a woman a
month. When he gets in too deep, ready for another inspiration, you
know, she calls up the old love on the telephone and asks her to stop
annoying her husband."

"Marvelous!" said Steingall, dropping his glasses.

"No, really?" said Rankin.

"Has she a sister?" said Towsey.

Stibo raised his eyes slowly to Quinny's but veiled as was the look, De
Gollyer perceived it, and smilingly registered the knowledge on the
ledger of his social secrets.

"That's it, by George! that is it," said Steingall, who hurled the
enthusiasm of a reformer into his pessimism. "It's all so simple; but
they won't understand. And why--do you know why? Because a woman is
jealous. It isn't simply of other women. No, no, that's not it; it's
worse than that, ten thousand times worse. She's jealous of your _art_!
That's it! There you have it! She's jealous because she can't understand
it, because it takes you away from her, because she can't _share_ it.
That's what's terrible about marriage--