“I can conceive of a marriage,” she said, “which would not become burdensome, any more than our best friendships become burdensome. Beside the attraction on the physical plane—which I believe is very necessary—there should exist all the higher affinities. I should want my husband to be my most delightful companion, able to keep my liking and to command my respect and confidence as I should hope to his. But I fear that is ideal.”
“The ideal is only the highest real,” I answered, “the ideal is always possible.”
“Remotely!” she said with a laugh. “The chances are many against it.”
“But even if one were to fall short a little in respect to husband or wife, I have often observed that there are compensations springing out of the relation, in other ways,” I returned.
“You mean children? O, yes, that is true, when all goes well. I will tell you,” she added, her voice dropping to the tone one instantly recognizes as confidential, “that I am educating several children in some of our best schools, and that I mean to provide for them with sufficient liberality when they come of age. So, you see, I have thrown hostages to fortune and shall probably reap a harvest of gratitude,—in place of filial affection.”
She laughed with a touch of mockery.
I suppose every one is familiar with the experience of having things—facts, bits of knowledge,—“come” to him, as we say. Something came to me, and froze the marrow in my bones.
“Elodia,” I ventured, “you asked me a very plain question a moment ago, will you forgive me if I ask you the same,—have you had amours?”