nt to
all relative experience whatever.' Companionship--yes--perhaps----"

"It is necessary to a man; but by no means to all women----"

"Not for yourself, you mean. You are still blunted and somewhat
disgusted--"

"I have dismissed the question. You cannot imagine how happy I feel
every morning when I wake up, and every night when I go, always rather
tired, into my comfortable little bed, knowing that I shall sleep like
an infant. I love work. I love out-door life. I love the long evenings
with my books and my thoughts, and my plans for the future--all my own.
I revel in the thought that I can never be unhappy again, because now I
love no one. I loved my poor father, and suffered with him in his fits
of repentance and shame. I loved, of course, that man. I have absolutely
nothing in common with Paula, and my mother is merely a pretty memory. I
am fond of Anabel and perhaps several other friends--Mr. and Mrs.
Leslie; but that sort of affection does not go very deep. Love is
synonymous with selfishness and slavery--slavery because you no longer
own yourself. My brother-in-law adores my sister, makes a great point of
his fidelity, because before his marriage he was always flaunting some
painted female, without which possession, a few years ago, a San
Franciscan felt that he would lose the respect of his fellow-citizens.
But Lyster's reform makes him as exacting as a Turk. If my poor silly
little sister smiles at some fugitive thought he demands to know what it
is, and if she cannot remember he sulks for a day. He would possess her
very thoughts. She dares not have a man friend, talk to a man for half
an hour at a time. He won't let her belong to a club--clubs are all very
well for other women, but his wife is not as other women. On the other
hand, he has long since let her persuade him that he is the most
marvellous of men, and, in consequence, permits her to make every sort
of mean little sacrifice while he spends his money on himself. Her eyes
are in a measure open now, but it is too late, and she rebels in the
usual futile feminine way. There are millions like them. You will meet
Anne Montgomery. She is thirty-five now, quite plain, and makes a living
as a sort of itinerant housekeeper and caterer. She was a most lovely
girl, with a wild-rose complexion and starlike eyes, and full of life
and buoyant hope. Her great talent was for the violin, and she dreamed
of conquering the world. Teachers told her that with the pr