teresting to me. I wish to tell you how
much I, too, have enjoyed our friendship. The first time we met I felt
sure we should be sympathetic, and we have been, haven't we? One of the
fine things about friendships between men and women in this country is
that they can really get to know each other without--er--harm to either.
Isn't it? It's such a pleasure to know people really, and I feel as if I
had known you, as if we had known each other really. I've never known
any man exactly in that way, and I have always wanted to. Except, of
course, my husband. And he's extremely different--that is, his tastes
are not like yours. It's a happiness to me to feel that I have been of
assistance to you in your work, and you have been equally helpful to me
in mine. As you say, I have never had the opportunity to learn the
technical parts of art, and your books have instructed me as to that. I
have never been in New York, but I understand what you meant about your
friends, those other women. I suppose society people must be constantly
diverted from serious work--from the intellectual and spiritual life. Oh
yes, we ought to write. Our friendship mustn't languish. We must let
each other know what we are thinking and doing. Good-by."

As Selma walked along the street her heart was in her mouth. She felt
pity for herself. To just the right person she would have confessed the
discovery that she had made a mistake and tied herself for life to the
wrong man. It was not so much that she fancied Littleton which
distressed her, for, indeed, she was but mildly conscious of
infatuation. What disturbed her was the contrast between him and
Babcock, which definite separation now forced upon her attention. An
indefinable impression that Littleton might think less of her if she
were to state this soul truth had restrained her at the last moment from
disclosing the secret. Not for an instant did she entertain the idea of
being false to Lewis. Her confession would have been but a dissertation
on the inexorable irony of fate, calling only for sympathy, and in no
way derogating from her dignity and self-respect as a wife. Still, she
had restrained herself, and stopped just short of the confidence. He was
gone, and she would probably not see him again for years. That was
endurable. Indeed, a recognition of the contrary would not have seemed
to her consistent with wifely virtue. What brought the tears to her eyes
was the vision of continued wedlock, until dea