beyond endurance. "Besides,
you said I couldn't make her jealous."

"No, I wish you could. I mean, don't let her fall in love with your
devotion to me again. Don't hold her by that one rope. Hold her by all
your ropes; then, if one goes, it doesn't so much matter."

"I see. You don't trust my goodness."

"Oh, _I_ trust it, so will she again. But don't _you_ trust it. That
precious goodness of yours is your rival. A bad, dangerous rival. You've
got to beat it out of the field. Show that you're jealous of it. A little
judicious jealousy won't hurt." Edith's eyes were still and profound with
wisdom. "I don't believe you've ever yet made love to Anne properly.
That's what it all comes to."

"Oh, I say," said he, "what do you know about it?"

"I'm only judging," said Edith, "by the results."

"Oh, that isn't fair."

"Perhaps it isn't," she owned, her wisdom growing by what it fed on.

"You see, she wouldn't let me do it properly."

Edith pondered. "Yes, but how long ago is it? And you've been married
since."

"What difference does that make?"

"I should say it would make all the difference. Anne was a girl, then.
She didn't understand. She's a woman now. She does understand. She can be
appealed to."

He hid his face in his hands.

"I never thought of that," he murmured thickly.

"Of course you didn't."

"Edie," he said, and his face was still hidden, "however did you think of
it?"

"Oh, I don't know. I see some things, and then other things come round to
me. But you mustn't forget that _you've_ got to begin all over again from
the very beginning. You'll have to be very careful with her, every bit as
careful as if she were a strange lady you've just met at a dance. Don't
forget that she's strange, that she's another woman, in fact."

"I see. If there are to be many of these remarkable transformations of
Anne, I shall have all the excitement of polygamy without its drawbacks."

"You will. And it's the same for her, remember. You're a strange man.
You've just been introduced, you know--by me--and you're begging for the
pleasure of the first waltz, and Anne pretends that her programme is
full, and you look over her shoulder and see that it isn't, and that she
puts you down for all the nice ones. And you sit out all the rest, and
you flirt on the stairs, and take her in to supper, and, finally, you
know, you pull yourself together and you do it--in the conservatory. Oh,
it'll be so amusing, and so funny to