over in
that field is green, when it is pink, because he has been taught that
grass is green. If poor Charles Edward only knew that grass was green
not of itself, but because of occasional conditions, and knew that his
aunt looked--well, as she does look--he would flee for his life, and
that which is better than his life, from the "Works," and be an artist,
but he never will know or know that he knows, which comes to the same
thing.

Well, what does it matter to me? I have just met a woman who stared at
me, and spoke as if she thought I were a lunatic to be afield in this
array. What does anything matter? Sometimes, when I am with people who
see straight, I do take a certain pleasure in looking well, because I am
a woman, and nothing can quite take away that pleasure from me; but all
the time I know it does not matter, that nothing has really mattered
since I was about Peggy's age and Lyman Wilde quarrelled with me over
nothing and vanished into thin air, so far as I was concerned. I suppose
he is comfortably settled with a wife and family somewhere. It is rather
odd, though, that with all my wandering on this side of the water and
the other I have never once crossed his tracks. He may be in the Far
East, with a harem. I never have been in the Far East. Well, it does not
matter to me where he is. That is ancient history. On the whole, though,
I like the harem idea better than the single wife. I have what is left
to me--the little things of life, the pretty effects which go to make me
pretty (outside Eastridge); the comforts of civilization, travelling
and seeing beautiful things, also seeing ugly things to enhance the
beautiful. I have pleasant days in beautiful Florence. I have friends. I
have everything except--well, except everything. That I must do without.
But I will do without it gracefully, with never a whimper, or I don't
know myself. But now I AM worried over Peggy. I wish I could consult
with somebody with sense. What a woman I am! I mean, how feminine I
am! I wish I could cure myself of the habit of being feminine. It is
a horrible nuisance; this wishing to consult with somebody when I am
worried is so disgustingly feminine.

Well, I have consulted. I am back in my own room. It is after supper.
We had three kinds of cake, hot biscuits, and raspberries, and--a
concession to Cyrus--a platter of cold ham and an egg salad. He will
have something hearty, as he calls it (bless him! he is a good-fellow),
for su