Mrs. Phillips was small and slight; her hair was a very dark brown, her lips were red, her eyes large and dark blue. Her mouth was the most beautiful part of her face. Her fascination was great; men loved her, went mad over her, and loved her still. She was not good-tempered; a man would never have chosen her for his friend merely. She was variable; not the least of her attraction was that men never could tell how she would treat them. Some women lose their power by their variableness; Mrs. Phillips gained hers. She was cold, yet she could have been passionately fond; but she worshipped self-control, and considered a man ceases to care for a woman when once he is sure of her.
“I shall marry him,” she said. “I think I shall. He is not poor, but I shall never live with him.”
“Why not? What will you do?”
“Though he cares for me, he will grow tired of marriage, and so shall I. The accessibility of a wife is so dull. I shall live in my own flat, and he can keep his rooms. Our marriage notice in all the papers will be followed by a week’s honeymoon, and then he can go back to his work, and I can play. He must love me better for not being sure of me at breakfast, weary of me at dinner, and asleep in the drawing-room at night. All the attraction of the—” she paused—“of the others will be mine. I shall be his wife. We can entertain, and he will be sure of me.”
“Do men always grow tired of us?” asked Launa, “even if or when they love us?”
“Not always tired, but secure. If they were merely tired, they would let us alone. They cease to desire to please us; we belong to them. Ah, my dear, love! do men love us? Yes, they love us, but do they love one woman?”
Launa’s clock struck twelve.
“I must go to bed,” said Lily Phillips. “I shall not kiss you. Women should never kiss each other. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” repeated Launa.
“That Carden man will want to marry you, Launa. Beware of them both. He is a worm, and has awful legs!”