"You said a moment ago--truly--that we are all in the same boat,"
observed he. "I put those questions to you because I honestly wish to
help you--because I wish you not to act foolishly, hastily."

"Thank you, Mr. Harding," said Mildred coldly. And with a slight nod
she went, angry and ashamed that she had so unaccountably opened up her
secret soul, bared its ugly wounds, before a man she knew so slightly,
a man in a position but one remove from menial. However, she took his
advice--not as to trying to view the matter from all sides, for she was
convinced that there was only the one side, but as to calming herself
by a long drive alone in the woods and along quiet roads. When she
returned she was under control once more.

She found the general impatiently awaiting her. Many packages had
come--from the jewelers, from the furriers, from a shop whose specialty
was the thinnest and most delicate of hand-made underwear. The general
loved to open and inspect finery for her--loved it more than he loved
inspecting finery for himself, because feminine finery was far more
attractive than masculine. To whet his pleasure to the keenest she
must be there to admire with him, to try on, to exhibit. As she
entered the salon where the little man was fussing about among the
packages, their glances met. She saw that Harding had told him--at
least in discreet outline--of their conversation. She also saw that if
she reopened the subject she would find herself straightway whirled out
upon a stormy sea of danger that might easily overwhelm her flimsy
boat. She silently and sullenly dropped into her place; she ministered
to the general's pleasure in packages of finery. But she did not
exclaim, or admire, or respond in any way. The honeymoon was over. Her
dream of wifehood was dissipated.

She understood now the look she so often had seen on the faces of rich
men's poor wives driving in state in Fifth Avenue. That night, as she
inspected herself in the glass while the general's maid for her brushed
her long thick hair, she saw the beginnings of that look in her own
face. "I don't know just what I am," she said to herself. "But I do
know what I am not. I am not a wife."

She sent away the maid, and sat there in the dressing-room before the
mirror, waiting, her glance traveling about and noting the profuse and
prodigal luxury. In the corner stood a circular rack loaded with
dressing-gowns--more than a score of exquisite combina