night, and frequently since then, if, in the event of his asking
her to marry him, which was possible, and of her accepting him,
which was also possible, whether she would find him, in the
closer knowledge of married life, as keen and lighthearted with
her as he had been with the French dancer. If he would but treat
her more like a comrade and equal, and less like a prime minister
conferring with his queen! She wanted something more intimate
than the deference that he showed her, and she did not like his
taking it as an accepted fact that she was as worldly-wise as
himself, even though it were true.

She was a woman and wanted to be loved, in spite of the fact that
she had been loved by many men--at least it was so supposed--and
had rejected them.

Each had offered her position, or had wanted her because she was
fitted to match his own great state, or because he was ambitious,
or because she was rich. The man who could love her as she
once believed men could love, and who could give her something
else besides approval of her beauty and her mind, had not
disclosed himself. She had begun to think that he never would,
that he did not exist, that he was an imagination of the
playhouse and the novel. The men whom she knew were careful to
show her that they appreciated how distinguished was her
position, and how inaccessible she was to them. They seemed to
think that by so humbling themselves, and by emphasizing her
position they pleased her best, when it was what she wanted them
to forget. Each of them would draw away backward, bowing and
protesting that he was unworthy to raise his eyes to such a
prize, but that if she would only stoop to him, how happy his