but she recalled them. "You must feel sorry for her," she said softly. "She's so young. I think you'll live to thank her. She'll learn that men like you don't come every day—only once in a lifetime."
"I was afraid you had left."
Uneasily he harked back to her first statement. "Why did you fear that I had left?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "You had nothing for which to stay."
"There was you."
"Me!" She laughed wisely. "You had to say that out of politeness. In a man's world I'm of no consequence. I know how I appear in your eyes. I've been married, so I'm no longer a novelty. I'm not so young as I was; I shall be older. And then I'm a mother—you forget that, Lord Taborley. Oh no, I have no attractions to offer."
"You have friendship."
"Friendship!" She repeated the word with a shake of her head. "Men never want merely friendship; they want less or more. They want vivacity—some one who will halve their years, with whom they can sport and romp. Some one who can have babies to them—little pink babies, with squirmy toes and baldy heads. They want to begin everything afresh. They're not looking for another man's left-overs. Even in the matter of disillusionizing a woman, they want to do that for themselves. Men who've not been married, demand that a woman shall be doing everything, as they are doing it, for the first time. It's their right."