made me to fight life with you! I wonder you never thought of leaving
your husband, and throwing yourself into the battle of work."

"Supposing I wasn't able to make my living. To give up my home would
be running too great a risk."

"How common all are when you begin to know them," thought Mike.

They spoke of the books they had read. She told him of _Le Journal
d'Amiel_, explaining the charm that that lamentable record of a
narrow, weak mind, whose power lay in an intense consciousness of its
own failure, had for her. She spoke savagely, tearing out her soul,
and flinging it as it were in Mike's face, frightening him not a
little.

"I wish I had known Amiel; I think I could have loved him."

"Did he never write anything but this diary?"

"Oh, yes; but nothing of any worth. The diary was not written for
publication. A friend of his found it among his papers, and from a
huge mass extricated two volumes." Then speaking in praise of the
pessimism of the Russian novels, she said--"There is no pleasure in
life--at least none for me; the only thing that sustains me is
curiosity."

"I don't speak of love, but have you no affection for your
friends?--you like me, for instance."

"I am interested in you--you rouse my curiosity; but when I know you,