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For a moment she made no reply. Then, as if for the first time owning to the idea which had long been uppermost in her mind, she said suddenly: “The truth of the matter is, that I really believe marriage is foolish. I do believe that no man ever approached it without regretting that civilization had made it necessary, and that many men would escape, at the very last moment, if women did not so rigidly hold them to their promises, and if, between two ridiculous positions, marriage having been pushed nearest, had not become desperately inevitable.”

“How absurd, Naomi, when you see the whole procession of men walking,–according to their dispositions–calmly or eagerly to their fate every day.”

“Nevertheless, I think the pre-nuptial confessions of a majority of men of our class, would prove that what I say is true.”

“Are you hinting that it was true in your case?”

“Perhaps.”

Shattuck gave an amused laugh. “Do you mean to say that you kept me to the point?”

“Not exactly. At that time I had an able bodied father who would have had to be dealt with. Besides, a man does not own up even to himself–not always–when he finds himself face to face with the inevitable. I am not speaking of what men talk about in such cases, or of what they do, but of what they feel,–of the fact that, in too many instances, Nature not having meant men for bondage, after they have passed the Rubicon to that spot from which the code of civilized honor does not permit them to turn back, they usually have a period of regret, and are forced to make a real effort to face the Future,–to go on, in fact.”

The smile had died out of Shattuck’s face and he said quite seriously: “As far as we are concerned, Naomi, I have very different recollections of the whole affair.”

“Have you? And yet, months before we were married, I knew that it would not have broken your heart if the wedding had not come off at all.”

“My dear, the modern heart does not break easily in this age. We are schooled to meet the accidents of life with some philosophy.”

“And yet to have lost you then, would have killed me.”

Shattuck looked at her sharply, with, one might almost have said, a new interest, but she was no longer looking at him. She went on, hurriedly: “You loved me, of course. I was of your world. I was a woman that other men liked, and therefore a desirable woman. I was of good family–altogether your social equal, in fact, quite the sort of woman it became you to marry. I pleased you–and I loved you.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he said. “In ten years, I doubt if you have ever made so frank a declaration as that–in words.” He was wondering, if, after all, she were going to develop into an emotional woman, and his heart gave a quick leap at the very thought–for there are hours when a woman who runs too much to head has a man at a cruel disadvantage.

“Things are so much harder, so much more complex for a woman,” she went on.

“For the protection of the community?”

“Perhaps. Still, it is not always pleasant to be a woman,–and yet think; a woman whose reason has been mistakenly developed at the expense of her capacity to enjoy being a woman, and who is forced at the same time to encounter the laws of Nature, and pay at the same time, the penalty of being a woman, and the penalty of knowledge. For, just so surely as we live, we must encounter love.–“

“You might take it out,” interrupted the husband, “in feeling flattered that it takes so much to conquer such as you.”

“So we might, but that, once conquered, neither man nor Nature has any further use for us, and regret, like art, is long. Not even you can deny,” she exclaimed, sitting up in some excitement, and letting her cushions fall in a mess all about her, “that life is very unfair to women.”