ng in
the world except property and profits--this golden idol?"

"I beg you to consider that there is something else," interrupted
he, with a slight hiss of irony; "this luxury which surrounds you
and becomes you so well."

Then she seated herself opposite him, and, bending forward, spoke
somewhat quickly, disconnectedly:

"Do we live with each other? We do not by any means. We only see
each other. There is nothing in common between us. You are
swallowed up by business, I by society. I have taken a fancy, it
is true, for amusement, but in the depth of my heart I am often
very gloomy. I feel lonely. My early life, as you know, was
modest, poor, toilsome, and often it calls to me reproachfully.
You do not know of this, for we have no time to exchange ideas. I
am of those women who need to feel guardianship, to have near
them an ear which might listen to their hearts, and a mind which
would direct their conscience. I am weak. I am full of dread. I
fear that in view of your frequent, almost continual absence, I
shall not be able to rear the children properly. I only know how
to love them, I would give my life for them, but I am weak. I beg
you not to leave me and them so frequently; that is, almost
continuously--rather let this luxury decrease--I shall be glad,
even, for the decrease will bring us nearer together. I beg you!"

She seized his hands, and it seemed as though she kissed them;
but it was certain that the pale, golden wave of her dishevelled
hair fell on them. Irene, though she was only ten years old then,
felt pity for her mother, and waited with intense curiosity for
her father's answer.

"What do you wish in particular?" asked he. "I listen, I listen,
still I do not know exactly what the question is. Is it this,
that I should stop work, which I love and which succeeds with me?
You must be in a waking dream. Those are ideas from another
society, mere childish fancies."

Here Irene's thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of Cara.

"Ira, is mamma sick, since she did not come to luncheon?"

"Mamma has neuralgia often; you know that well." Cara turned to
the door of her mother's bedroom, but Irene stopped her.

"Do not go; she may be sleeping." The girl approached her sister:

"It seems to me--" she whispered and stopped.

"What seems to you a second time?"

"That there is something going on in this house--"

Irene frowned.

"What an imagination you have! You are ever imagining something
un