"No; I've never sold anything like that."
"But what's the use," Mrs. Averill asked, "of caring about things when you can't have them? I should hate it."
"Only that there's nothing you can't have."
"Do you hear that, Boyd?" I caught the impulse of the purring, velvety thing to vary the monotony of life by scratching. "Mr. Soames says there's nothing I can't have. Much he knows, doesn't he?"
"There's nothing you can't have—within reason, dear."
"Ah, but I don't want things within reason. I want them out of reason. I want to be like Mr. Soames—free—free—"
"You can't be free and be a married woman."
"You can when you have a vocation, can't you, Mr. Soames? I suppose Mr. Soames is a married man—and look at him." She hurried beyond this point, to add: "And look at Sydna, whom we heard the other afternoon! She's a married woman and her husband lives in London. He lets her sing. He lets her travel. He leads his life and lets her ... Mr. Soames, what do you think?"
I said, tactfully, "I shall be able to judge better when you've sung to me."
Miss Averill, taking up the thread of the conversation here, we got through the rest of the luncheon without treading in difficult places, and presently I was alone with Averill, who was passing the cigars.