“No, but here, publicly, I proclaim the fact, that my newspaper and I are yours at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, your perpetual offer at times grows somewhat wearisome,” said Ouida, “but, seriously speaking, Doane, get a law passed which will allow marriage for a limited period, renewable at the option of the parties, and I will try you for a brief period. The thought of being forever tied to one man appals me.”
“But,” remonstrated Connors, “you forget, dear lady, that sometimes offspring follows marriage.”
“Bah,” said Ouida, passionately, “they ought to be throttled ere conceived. There are too many carelessly reared brats in the world today. It would be a good thing to stop pro-creation for a generation.”
“There is really some sense in that,” thoughtfully reflected Wayland aloud.
Ouida continued: “The Romans were wise. They killed children not physically perfect. Pharaoh sacrificed the first born of the Jews. I see no cruelty whatever in the idea. But I will not continue this discussion. I am too full of anger.”
“Because I won?” said the editor.
“Partially so,” replied Ouida. “I was not consulted, and I refuse to be bound by such a silly arrangement. Think you that one sour, dyspeptic, gossipy editor, would for an entire evening suffice me, especially at the opera, where one who listens to the music, is entirely out of the fashion?”
“But—” the editor started in on a protest.
“I shall not listen to you,” cried Ouida, as she imperiously stamped her shapely foot, “I will settle this matter by inviting you all to occupy seats in my box. I shall take no vote upon the matter, for well I know your acceptance is unanimous.”