She stopped in the middle of the room, and, holding in her hand her
large hat decorated with ostrich feathers, she assured herself that it
was not at all likely that he would commit suicide. Yet men did commit
suicide.... She did not want him to kill himself, that anything so
terrible should happen would grieve her very much. She was quite
sincere, yet the thought persisted that it would be very wonderful if
he did do so. It would make a great scandal. That a man should kill
himself for her! No woman had ever obtained more than that. Standing
in the middle of the room, twirling her hat, she asked herself if she
really wished him to kill himself. Of course not. Then she thought of
herself, of how strange she was. She was very strange, she had never
quite understood herself.

Mechanically, as if in a dream, she opened a bandbox and put her hat
away. She smoothed her soft hair before the glass. Her appearance
pleased her, and she wondered if she were worth a man's life. She was
a dainty morsel, no doubt, so dainty that life was unendurable without
her. But she was wronging herself, she did not wish him to kill
himself.... Men had done so before for women.... If it came to the
point, she would do everything in her power to prevent such a thing.
She would do everything, yes, everything except marry him. She
couldn't settle down to watch him painting pictures. She wanted to
paint pictures herself. Would she succeed? He didn't think so, but
that was because he wanted her to marry him. And, if she didn't
succeed, she would have to marry him or some one else. She would have
to live with a man, give up her whole life to him, submit herself to
him. She must succeed. Success meant so much. If she succeeded, she
would be spoken of in the newspapers, and, best of all, she would hear
people say when she came into a room, 'That is Mildred Lawson....'