gham. You will not
mind coming home alone?"

"No, I shall not mind. But do you take the brougham. It will be
better so. It will save the horse from cold; I'll come back in a
hansom."

Mike noticed a look of relief or of pleasure on her face, he could
not distinguish which. He pressed the conversation on wives,
husbands, and lovers, striving to lead her into some confession. At
last she said--

"I have had a lover for the last four years."

"Really!" said Mike. He hoped his face did not betray his great
surprise. This was the first time he had ever heard a lady admit she
had had a lover.

"We do not often meet; he doesn't live in England. I have not seen
him for more than six months."

"Do you think he is faithful to you all that time?"

"What does it matter whether he is or not? When we meet we love each
other just the same."

"I have never known a woman like you. You are the only one that has
ever interested me. If you had been my mistress or my wife you would
have been happier; you would have worked, and in work, not in
pleasure, we may cheat life. You would have written your books, I
should have written mine."

"I don't want you to think I am whining about my lot. I know what the
value of life is; I'm not deceived, that is all."

"You are unhappy because your present life affords no outlet for your
talent. Ah! had you had to fight the battle! How happy it would have
made me to fight life with you! I wonder you never thought of leaving
your husband, and throwing yourself into the battle of work."

"Supposing I wasn't able to make my living. To give up my home would
be running too great a risk."

"How common all are when you begin to know them," thought Mike.

They spoke of the books they had read. She told him of _Le Journal
d'Amiel_, explaining the charm that that lamentable record of a
narrow, weak mind, whose power lay in an intense consciousness of its
own failure, had for her. She spoke savagely, tearing out her soul,
and flinging it as it were in Mike's face, frightening him not a
little.

"I wish I had known Amiel; I think I could have loved him."

"Did he never write anything but this diary?"

"Oh, yes; but nothing of any worth. The diary was not written for
publication. A friend of his found it among his papers, and from a
huge mass extricated two volumes." Then speaking in praise of the
pessimism of the Russian novels, she said--"There is no pleasure in
life--at least none for me; the