“Well, I see that it gives a great deal. But I must admit that it takes away something—yes, much—strength from the mind and softness from the heart.”
I was astonished at this admission from her—at the admission itself, at the fresh evidences of what a good natural mind she had. But I had no desire to discuss with her. I had long outgrown the folly of discussion with futile people. I was tempted to air my own views of this so-called culture—how it emasculated where it pretended to soften; how it discovered nothing, invented nothing, produced nothing, did not feed, or clothe, or shelter, or in any way contribute to the sane happiness of a human being; how it unfitted men and women for active life, made them pitiful spectators merely, scoffing or smiling superciliously at the battle. But I refrained. I knew she believed the rôle of spectator the only one worthy a lady or a gentleman—and certainly it is the only one either lady or gentleman could take without being exposed as ridiculous. I knew that her wise observations were clever conversation merely, after the manner of futile people—that when the time for action came her snobbishness dominated her.
“I wish these men were not so—so——”
“Good-for-nothing?” I suggested.
She accepted the phrase, though she would have preferred one less mercilessly truthful.
“You can’t find everything in one person,” said I.
That kind of tame generality—lack of interest thinly veiled in a polite show of interest—kills conversation and sets a tarrying caller to moving where dead silence produces a nervous tendency to linger. Edna extended her arm, resting her hand upon the crook of her parasol in a gesture of approaching departure. Yet she seemed loth to go. She rose, but counterbalanced with:
“You know, I suppose, that it’s likely to be Frascatoni?”
I rose, replied indifferently, “So I hear.”
She stood, smiling vaguely down at the gloved hand on the crook of the parasol. “If I were only younger—or more credulous,” said she. And I knew that there was a thin, sour after-taste to the sparkling wine of the prince’s love-making. I smiled—pleasant, noncommittal.