“I did, for a while; but I’ve begun to get tired of so much going about. For the most part I meet the same people, and I’ve found out what they have to say.”
I laughed. “You have caught the society complaint already—ennui!”
“I had it years ago, at home. It’s true I never would have gone out at all if it hadn’t been for the sake of my family. That’s why I envy a woman like you—”
I could not help laughing. It was too funny, Mrs. Douglas van Tuiver envying me!
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Just the irony of life. Do you know, I cut you out of the newspaper, and put you in a little frame on my bureau. I thought, here is the loveliest face I’ve ever seen, and here is the most-to-be-envied of women.”
She smiled, but quickly became serious. “I learned very early in life that I was beautiful; and I suppose if I were suddenly to cease being beautiful, I’d miss it; yet I often think it’s a nuisance. It makes one dependent on externals. Most of the beautiful women I’ve known make a sort of profession of it—they live to shine and be looked at.
“And you don’t enjoy that?” I asked.
“It restricts one’s life. Men expect it of you, they resent your having any other interest.”
“So,” I responded, gravely, “with all your beauty and wealth, you aren’t perfectly happy?”