“You need not preach. I am. But when I come back to Europe I’m going to pretend to be a widow and travel by myself.”
“Are you so in love with liberty?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I have always thought highly of it myself,” he said, lightly. “How do you like Mrs. Rothe, on the whole? Don’t you find her a good sort, in spite of her foibles?”
“Follies, I should call them. Yes, I like her, if only because she has taught me that a person may be foolish and yet be wise; decorate herself like a cocotte and yet be a lady; violate half the rules one has been brought up on and yet be more estimable than the wholly virtuous—Cousin Miranda, for instance.”
“Those would be dangerous deductions for some girls, but you have a ripping strong head. You ought to be as grateful for that as for your beauty.”
“I wish you’d stop preaching.”
“I never preached in my life,” he said, indignantly. “I was merely thinking aloud—uttering an obvious fact. I might add that I wish your temper was in the same class with your good looks and common-sense.”
“Well, it isn’t. Do you approve of second marriages?”
“Never given a thought to the subject. If ever I married it would not be with the divorce court among the future possibilities.”