"I shouldn't—on my own account. But there may come a man you love." He had a fine baritone voice. When she heard him sing Mrs. Leland always wished he were taller, handsomer, more distinguished looking; his voice sounded as if he were. And I should hate to see these reasons standing in the way of your happiness," he continued.
"Perhaps they wouldn't," said she in a revery.
"Perhaps they wouldn't—and in that case it is no possible harm that you tell me the rest of them. I won't cast it up at you. Third?"
"Third, I won't give up my profession for any man alive."
"Any man alive would be a fool to want you to," said he setting down,
"Third—Profession."
"Fourth—I like Freedom!" she said with sudden intensity. "You don't know!—they kept me so tight!—so tight—when I was a girl! Then—I was left alone, with a very little money, and I began to study for the stage—that was like heaven! And then—O what idiots women are!" She said the word not tragically, but with such hard-pointed intensity that it sounded like a gimlet. "Then I married, you see—I gave up all my new-won freedom to marry!—and he kept me tighter than ever." She shut her expressive mouth in level lines—stood up suddenly and stretched her arms wide and high. "I'm free again, free—I can do exactly as I please!" The words were individually relished. "I have the work I love. I can earn all I need—am saving something for the boy. I'm perfectly independent!"
"And perfectly happy!" he cordially endorsed her. "I don't blame you for not wanting to give it up."
"O well—happy!" she hesitated. "There are times, of course, when one isn't happy. But then—the other way I was unhappy all the time."
"He's dead—unfortunately," mused Mr. Olmstead.
"Unfortunately?—Why?"