however much a woman complains of a man's stupidity, she will let him
hang about her, and make a grievance of it, until she sees fit to drop
him. When that moment arrives she can make him let go, and lower away
all right. Just now Hartley is hanging on quite perceptibly, and if it
entertains you to slang him behind his back, I suppose you will slang
him, but he won't drop off before you've done with him, Clarice, if I
know anything of your methods." Her face flushed and she began to look
angry. "Mind you, I don't object to Hartley. As you say, he's a fool, a
silly, trusting ass, the sort of man who is child's-play to a girl of
sixteen. If you must have a string of loafers to prove that your
attractions outwear _anno domini_, I must accept Hartley, and other
Hartleys, so long as you continue to play the same game. _Hartleys_, I
said, Clarice."

There was no doubt about the emphasis he laid upon the name.

"You flatter Mr. Hartley considerably," she said, but her voice was
conciliatory and her laugh nervous.

"He represents a type; a type that some married men may be thankful
continues to exist. God!" he broke out violently, "if he could hear you
talk of him, it would be a lesson to the fool, but he won't hear you. No
man ever does hear these things until the knowledge comes too late to be
of any use to him. You have got to have your strings"--he shrugged his
shoulders--"because your life isn't here, in this house; it is at the
Club, and at dinners and races and so on, and to be left to your
husband is the beginning of the end. Don't deny it, Clarice, it's no
earthly use. Women like you have your own ideas of life, I suppose, and
I ought to be thankful they're no worse."