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“No,” he said, “only a picture of it.”

“Well, she is not buried under it, and the second coffin was placed on hers.” She stopped.

“Go on,” he said.

“Oh,” she cried, “it is so hard to go on. But it is true. As soon as David was free I felt I had an object in life. I–I followed him, I might almost say pursued him all over the world, and when we met I courted him, and it seems strange, but I asked him to marry me. And — “ she hesitated — “he refused twice.”

“He did not want to marry you?” Vargas asked incredulously.

“He refused. It was at Cairo, that first time. He said he could not love anyone any more, all his love, his very self, was buried in Marian's grave. The second time was at Hongkong. Then he said he always had cared for me and still cared for me, but that affection was as nothing compared to his passion for Marian, that he would never marry, and especially he would not marry me because of his regard for me, that I would not be contented or happy with him, that I was thinking of the lad he had been and that boy was buried in his wife's grave, that he was nothing more than a walking ghost, a wraith of what he had been, a spirit condemned to wander its allotted time on earth until his hour should come and he be called to join Marian.

“The third time was in Paris. He said he was indifferent to everything, to anything, to love or hate or death or life; that he cared nothing whether he married me or not. If I cared as much as I seemed to he would marry me to please me. I told him that what I had always wanted was to be with him, that what I most wanted was to spend with him as much as possible of my time until death parted us. He said if that was what I wanted I could have it, but he was nothing more than a shadow of his old self and I was sure to be unhappy. And I am unhappy. He is generosity, gentleness, kindness and consideration itself, but he does not care. I hoped, of course, that his grief for Marian would soften, fade away and vanish, that he would cease to mourn for her, that his interest in life would reawaken, that I could win his love and that we would both be happy. But I am not. His utter indifference to me, to anything, to everything is preying on my feelings, I must do something. I shall lose my mind.”

“Is that all?” Vargas asked.

“It is enough,” she asserted, “and more than enough. Do you think it a small matter?”

“Not in the least,” he declared, “I comprehend your disappointment in respect to your hopes, your chagrin at your baffled efforts to win him back to be his old self, your pain at his inertness. But by your own showing you have no grievance against your husband.”

“That I have not,” she maintained. “Not a shadow of a grievance against him. My grievance is for him as much as for myself and against — against the way the world is made.”

Vargas looked at her for some little time.

“You do not say what you are thinking,” she interrupted.

“I am considering how to express it,” he said. “However I express it I am sure to offend you.”

“Not a bit,” she replied. “Say it at once.”

“You must realize that if I am to advise you truly I must speak plainly,” he hesitated.

“I do realize it,” she told him.

“You will then pardon what I have to say?” he ventured.

“I will pardon anything except beating about the bush,” she rapped out.

“Well,” he said slowly, “it seems to me that your coming to me, your state of mind, your trouble, as you have related it all turns upon a piece of femininity to which you should be altogether superior, to which I should have imagined you were altogether superior. You look, and I have always imagined you, free from any trace of the eternal feminine. Here it crops out. Men in general find that women in general have no feeling for the mutuality of a contract. Some women may be exceptions, but women habitually ignore the other side of a contract and see only their own side. Here you display the same defect. Mr. Llewellyn practically proposed a contract to you: on his side he to marry you, on your side, you to put up with his complete indifference to you, to everything, and be content with his actual companionship such as he is. He has fulfilled and is fulfilling his part of the contract, you seek escape from yours.”

“I think,” she snapped. “You are insufferably brutal.”

“The eternal feminine again,” he retorted.

“Worse and more of it. I told you I should offend you.”

“You do offend me. I have confidence in you, but I did not come here to be scolded or to be preached at. I do not want criticism, I want advice. Don't tell me my shortcomings, real or imaginary, think over my troubles and my needs and tell me what to do.”

“That is plain enough,” he asserted. “Do your obvious duty. Keep your part of your contract with your husband. Give no sign that you suffer from the absence of feeling of which he warned you. Make the most of your life with him. Hope for a change in him but do not try to force it, do not rebel if it does not come.”

“I know I ought to endure,” she wailed. “But I cannot, I must do something. I must act. I must.”

“You have asked for my advice,” he said, “and you have it.”

“And what good is it to me?” she objected, “I ask for help and you string out platitudinous precepts like a snuffy, detestable old-fashioned evangelical dominie. Is this all the help you can give me?”

“All,” said Vargas humbly. “If I knew of any other it should be at your service.”

“You could consult your slate for me, as I proposed,” she suggested.

“Great heavens above!” he cried, “I have told you that all that is imposture.”

“It might turn out genuine for once,” she persisted. “Don't people have real trances? Don't many people believe in the answers from slates and planchettes and ouija boards?”

“Perhaps they do,” Vargas admitted. “But I never had a real trance, never saw one, never knew of one. And to my knowledge no slate or other such device ever gave any answer or wrote anything unless I or some other shuffler made it write or answer.”