"I think he is very nice," she dodged. "But what has that to do with our friendship?"
"Everything," Tait answered, with tightened lips. "Mrs. Enslee, your father and I rowed together in the same college crew, and Harvey's father was my best friend. May I speak freely to you?"
She responded immediately to the almost affection of his tone. "I wish you would."
"What little success in life I have had," Tait began, with the somewhat formal speech of an orator, "has been due to my habit of foreseeing dangerous combinations and preventing them, or running away from them. The most dangerous combination on earth is a woman, a man, and another man. No married woman has a right to the—I believe you said 'friendship,' of a man who cares for her as Harvey cares for you."
She extracted from his warning only the hidden sweet. "And he does care for me still!"
"But you've married another man."
"Of course," she answered. "But do you think that I can find Mr. Enslee so fascinating that I must give up all my friends?"
"Friends!" Tait exclaimed, with bitterness. "In my day, Mrs. Enslee, I have seen some of the proudest families in New York dragged into the mire of public shame by tragedies that began as innocent experiments in friendship. Don't risk it, Mrs. Enslee. You are on dangerous ground."
She mused aloud. "And you think he loves me still?"
Tait tossed his mane in despair. "Good Lord! That's all my words have meant to you? Well, since we are talking so bluntly, you'll perhaps permit me to say that I know you are not happily married. Everybody knew you never would be happy with Willie Enslee."