gross by their humor. Her private severity with women who did, he felt,
was too extreme. The truth was that she regarded the mechanism of
nature with distaste; Fanny was never lost, never abandoned, in
passion--Lee Randon had wondered if she regarded that as more than a
duty, the discharge of a moral, if not actually a religious,
obligation. It was certain that she was clothed in a sense of bodily
shame, of instinctive extreme modesty, which no situation or degree of
feeling could destroy.

He understood, however, that he could not have Fanny as she was,
immeasurably fine, without accepting all the implications of her
character--other qualities, which he might desire, would as well bring
their defects. Lee didn't for a second want a wife like Anette. His
admiration for Fanny was, fundamentally, enormous. He was glad that
there was nothing hidden in his life which could seriously disturb her;
nothing, that was, irrevocable. Which had he been--wise or fortunate,
or only trivial? Perhaps, everything considered, merely fortunate; and
he wondered how she would have met an infidelity of his? He put his
question in the past tense because now, Lee congratulated himself, all
the danger was passed: forty-seven, with responsibilities that
increased every month in importance, and swiftly growing children; the
hair above his ears was patched with grey.

"I don't like that centerpiece," Fanny observed, "I can't see you.
Still, it's as well, I suppose, since you didn't change. You look so
much better in dark clothes, Lee, thinner."

"You shouldn't make me so comfortable."

"You'd see to that, anyhow; men always do. Honestly, Alice Lucian was a