They were sitting now on the bench round the circle where the
fountain was tossing high its jets in play with the sunshine. She
was looking very much the woman of the fashionable world, and the
soft grays, shading into blues, that dominated her costume gave
her an exceeding and entrancing seeming of fragility. Arkwright
thought her eyes wonderful; the sweet, powerful yet delicate odor
of the lilac sachet powder with which her every garment was
saturated set upon his senses like a love-philter.

"Yes, you are finer and nobler than most women," he said giddily.
"And that's why it distresses me to hear you talk even in jest, as
if you could marry Josh."

"And a few weeks ago you were suggesting him as just the husband
for me."

Arkwright was silent. How could he go on? How tell her why he had
changed without committing himself to her by a proposal? She was
fascinating--would be an ideal wife. With what style and taste
she'd entertain--how she'd shine at the head of his table! What a
satisfaction it would be to feel that his money was being so
competently spent. But--well, he did not wish to marry, not just
yet; perhaps, somewhere in the world, he would find, in the next
few years, a woman even better suited to him than Margaret.
Marrying was a serious business. True, now that divorce had pushed
its way up and had become recognized by fashionable society, had
become an established social favorite, marriage had been robbed of
one of its terrors. But the other remained--divorce still meant
alimony. The woman who trapped an eligible never endangered her