"You're quite right, Mrs. Holt," said Trixton Brent, beginning, as the
dinner progressed, to take in the lady opposite a delight that surprised
him. "I'm willing to confess that I've led an extremely selfish
existence."

"The confession isn't necessary," she replied. "It's written all over
you. You're the type of successful man who gets what he wants. I don't
mean to say that you are incapable of kindly instincts." And her eye
twinkled a little.

"I'm very grateful for that concession, at any rate," he declared.

"There might be some hope for you if you fell into the hands of a good
woman," said Mrs. Holt. "I take it you are a bachelor. Mark my words, the
longer you remain one, the more steeped in selfishness you are likely to
become in this modern and complex and sense-satisfying life which so many
people lead."

Honora trembled for what he might say to this, remembering his bitter
references of that afternoon to his own matrimonial experience. Visions
of a scene arose before her in the event that Mrs. Holt should discover
his status. But evidently Trixton Brent had no intention of discussing
his marriage.

"Judging by some of my married friends and acquaintances," he said, "I
have no desire to try matrimony as a remedy for unselfishness."

"Then," replied Mrs. Holt, "all I can say is, I should make new friends
amongst another kind of people, if I were you. You are quite right, and
if I were seeking examples of happy marriages, I should not begin my
search among the so-called fashionable set of the present day. They are
so supremely selfish that if the least difference in taste develops, or
if another man or woman chances along whom they momentarily fancy more
than their own husbands or wives, they get a divorce. Their idea of
marriage is not a mutual sacrifice which brings happiness through trials
borne together and through the making of character. No, they have a
notion that man and wife may continue to lead their individual lives.
That isn't marriage. I've lived with Joshua Holt thirty-five years last
April, and I haven't pleased myself in all that time."

"All men," said Trixton Brent, "are not so fortunate as Mr. Holt."

Honora began to have the sensations of a witness to a debate between
Mephistopheles and the powers of heaven. Her head swam. But Mrs. Holt,
who had unlooked-for flashes of humour, laughed, and shook her curls at
Brent.

"I should like to lecture you some time," she said; "I think it