whatever her suspicions may be. When she marries, if
she doesn't marry from family pressure or from her own motives of
common-sense ambition, she marries because she likes the man, not
because she loves him."

Sylvia was silent.

"Because, even if she wanted to love him," continued Grace, "she would
not know how. It's the ingrained innocence which men encounter that
they don't allow for or understand in us. Even after we are married, and
whether or not we learn to love our husbands, it remains part of us
as an educated instinct; and it takes all the scientific, selfish
ruthlessness of a man to break it down. That's why I say so few among
us ever comprehend the motives attributed to us in romance or in that
parody of it called realism. Love is rarer with us than men could ever
believe--and I'm glad of it," she said maliciously, with a final snap of
her pretty teeth.

"It was on that theory you advised me, I think," said Sylvia, looking
into the fire.

"Advised you, child?"

"Yes--about accepting Howard."

"Certainly. Is it not a sound theory? Doesn't it stand inspection?
Doesn't it wear?"

"It--wears," said Sylvia indifferently. Grace looked up from her open
book. "Is anything amiss?" she asked.

"I don't know."

"Of course you know, child. What is wrong? Has Howard made himself
insufferable? He's a master at it. Has he?"

"No; I don't remember that he has. ... I'm tired, physically. I'm tired of
the winter."

"Go to Florida for Lent."

"Horror! It's as stupid as a hothouse. It isn't that, either,
dear--only, when it was raining so deliciously the other day I was silly
enough to think I scented the spring in the park. I was glad of a change
you know--any excuse to stop this eternal carnival I live in."

"What is the matter?" demanded Mrs. Ferrall, withdrawing her finger from
the pages and plumping the closed book down on her knee. "You'd better
tell me, Sylvia; you might just as well tell me now as later when my
persistence has vexed us both. Now, what has happened?"

"I have been--imprudent," said Sylvia, in a low voice.

"You mean,"--Mrs. Ferrall looked at her keenly--"that he has been here?"

"No. I telephoned him; and I asked him to drive with me."

"Oh, Sylvia, what nonsense! Why on earth do you stir yourself up by that
sort of silliness at this late date? What use is it? Can't you let him
alone?"

"I--No, I can't, it seems. Grace, I was--I felt so--so strangely about
it all."

"About wha