precious in the past. For departed delights are rosy with deceitful hopes,
and a woman's heart becomes heavy with living. We are the woman you once
knew, but we are much more. We have learned new secrets, new emotions, new
ambitions, in love--we are fuller than before." So--for to-morrow they
will be shrivelled and lifeless--I take up their message to-night.

I see you now as this afternoon at the Goodriches', when you came in
triumphantly to essay that hot room of empty, passive folk. Someone was
singing somewhere, and we were staring at one another. There you stood at
the door, placing us; the roses, scattered in plutocratic profusion, had
drooped their heads to our hot faces. We turned from the music to _you_.
You knew it, and you were glad of it. You knew that they were busy about
you, that you and your amiable hostess made an effective group at the head
of the room. You scented their possible disapproval with zest, for you had
so often mocked their good-will with impunity that you were serenely
confident of getting what you wanted. Did you want a lover? Not that I
mean to offer myself in flesh and blood: God forbid that I should join the
imploring procession, even at a respectful distance! My pen is at your
service. I prefer to be your historian, your literary maid--half slave,
half confidant; for then you will always welcome me. If I were a lover, I
might some day be inopportune. That would not be pleasant.

Yes, they were chattering about you, especially around the table where
some solid ladies of Chicago served iced drinks. I was sipping it all in
with the punch, and looking at the pinks above the dark hair, and
wondering if you found having your own way as good fun as when you were
eighteen. You have gained, my dear lady, while I have been knocking about
the world. You are now more than "sweet": you are almost handsome. I
suppose it is a question of lights and the time of day whether or not you
are really brilliant. And you carry surety in your face. There is nothing