two more and she might have been a genius. She is like the mass
of women in many things, heaven knows, but her divergences are the more
startling; and the point of divergence lies down in the roots of her
pride. She suddenly felt the complete loss, the final departure of
youth, and she accepted it like a fallen goddess, and refused even the
sudden and startling renewal of Sir Cadge Vanneck's devotions. She had
nothing left to give him, and although her pride may have urged her to
show the world that she still could capture a man like that, I think he
really bored her to death, and she was satisfied to parade him for a
time and then publicly throw him over. And she once loved him, I am
certain of it. That is tragedy, if you like. I fancy she has desperate
moments, but she will pull through in her own way. Don't delude yourself
with the notion that she is sitting down in sackcloth and ashes with her
past! Those women don't repent, for they never admit that the laws of
common mortals apply to them. What is their royal pleasure to do they
do, and when it is over a square inch of their memory might have gone
with it. To mull themselves, commit some flagrant error that lands them
in the divorce court, or high and dry in the outskirts--that is another
matter. They repent then, _sans doute_; and get no mercy. We overlook
everything at this apex of civilization but stupidity. We respect the
high-handed but not the light-headed. That is one reason those
long-winded novels of sin and repentance--generally over one slip and
when the man has wearied--leave us cold. We know too much. It seems such
a lot of fuss about so little. If some of these good, painstaking,
and--let us whisper it--bourgeoise novelists had seen one-tenth of the
pagan disregard for all they cherish most highly, that I have seen, and
if they could only be made to comprehend--which they never could--how
absolutely admirable these same women are in many other respects--such
capacity for deep undying friendship, such uncalculating loyalty, such
racial possibilities of heroism--well, they would do a good deal harder
thinking than they have had to do yet, if they attempted to readjust
their traditions to the actual facts of life. But the old traditions get
back at our women all the same, although they don't suspect it. They pay
the penalty in that late--sometimes not so late--intolerable maddening
ennui. Heavens! how many women I have heard wish they were dead. Thank
God