"You are more than a book agent. You have, at least, been a man of means. Really, I would be pleased to know from your own lips," she now sighed.
"I wish we could talk of something else, that would be more interesting. Cannot you suggest something?" he turned to her now appealingly.
"I cannot. Yourself is the most interesting thing I care to talk about. I have been thinking of the terrible secret you disclose in the book. Won't you please tell me if it is all true?"
"I suppose if the book is published as a true story, then it must be so," he said evasively.
"And she was a weak woman. No strength and conviction; nothing to protect a home. You and she will not remain as you are, will you?" Silence. "There is nothing the matter with you—and her. I sympathize with this fellow." Miss Palmer was more serious now. "Because, apparently, he wanted, tried to do the right thing, and was not allowed.... I know somebody else that wished to do likewise, and was not allowed.... Life is a strange thing, isn't it?"
"Indeed so," he agreed.
"And on this pilgrimage you study the lives of others, many others, and it reveals so much to you that would, could not be possible, otherwise?"
He agreed with her again.
"And on this pilgrimage you have met women, and you have studied them and their way of seeing things?"
"Possibly. They are all in the same category."