Fancy my astonishment when ten years later I met the stately Mrs.
Beuland in the lobby of my hotel in Reno. I had not seen her since her
marriage; the only difference the years had made, apparently, was that
now she was a woman instead of a girl, and yes, there was just a wisp
of snowy white hair among the black locks about her forehead, which
made her look even more aristocratic, if that was possible.

When one is lonely and alone in a strange place, it is most agreeable
to find an unexpected friend; and when one has a heavy heart, it is
good to confide in a sympathetic friend; so Mrs. Beuland and I became
close companions. I was fortunately able to lend a helping hand and
cheer the lonely way of this charming and much loved woman. One day as
we were chatting on the banks of the Truckee, she said to me: "Do you
know, it does seem such a pity that one of the most beautiful things
on earth really causes the most trouble!" "What is that?" I replied.
"Youthful ideals," she replied.

"For a youthful ideal I have paid long years of misery, and have spent
that time as an apprentice in the workshop of wisdom. Tardy wisdom,
the mother of all real enduring happiness. Because of a youthful ideal
I did not marry the man I really loved; instead I married the man I
thought I loved. I wanted to be the companion and friend and ideal
mate and intellectual partner through life to the man I married; those
were my ideals.

"The moment I promised myself to the man I loved I found myself
clasped tightly in passion's mad embrace; a mad passion by youth's
fierce fires fed; his kisses hotly pressed on my lips burned into my
very soul and made my heart sick. Was that love? It was certainly not
my ideal, to be the toy of mad passion!