“But she might always be new. She might interest me more and more. Anyhow I fancy that she would weary of me long before I wearied of her. I think women usually weary first. Men are very monotonous. We are as vain as women, if not vainer, without their capacity for concealing it. And vanity makes one think he does not need to exert himself to please.”
“But why do people usually say that it is the men that are difficult to hold?”
“Because the men hold the women, not through the kind of interest we are talking about, but through another kind—quite different. Women are so lazy and so dependent—dependent upon men for homes, for money, for escort even.”
Miss Trevor was flushing, as if the fire were too hot—at least she moved a little farther away from it. “Your ideal woman would be a shop-girl, I should say from what you’ve told me.”
“Perhaps—in the abstract. I really do think that if I were going to marry, I should look about for a working-girl, a girl that supported herself. How can a man be certain of the love of a woman who is dependent upon him? I should be afraid she was only tolerating me as a labour-saving device.”
Miss Trevor laughed. “There certainly is no vanity in that remark,” she said. “Now I can’t imagine most of the men I know thinking that.”
“It’s only theory with me. In practice doubtless I should be as self-complacent as any other man.”
They left Mrs. Sidney’s together and Howard walked down the Avenue with her. It seemed a wonderful afternoon—the air dazzling, intoxicating. He was filled with the joy of living and was glad this particular tall, slender, distinguished-looking girl was there to make his enjoyment perfect. They were gay with the delight of being young and in health and attractive physically and mentally each to the other. They looked each at the other a great deal, and more and more frankly.
“Am I never to see you again?” he asked as he rang the bell for her.
“I believe Mrs. Carnarvon is going to invite you to dine here Thursday night.”