remarkable woman I know--who sits and knits and smiles. She is one who
understands. Her husband adores her, and he is in love with a woman a
month. When he gets in too deep, ready for another inspiration, you
know, she calls up the old love on the telephone and asks her to stop
annoying her husband."

"Marvelous!" said Steingall, dropping his glasses.

"No, really?" said Rankin.

"Has she a sister?" said Towsey.

Stibo raised his eyes slowly to Quinny's but veiled as was the look, De
Gollyer perceived it, and smilingly registered the knowledge on the
ledger of his social secrets.

"That's it, by George! that is it," said Steingall, who hurled the
enthusiasm of a reformer into his pessimism. "It's all so simple; but
they won't understand. And why--do you know why? Because a woman is
jealous. It isn't simply of other women. No, no, that's not it; it's
worse than that, ten thousand times worse. She's jealous of your _art_!
That's it! There you have it! She's jealous because she can't understand
it, because it takes you away from her, because she can't _share_ it.
That's what's terrible about marriage--no liberty, no individualism, no
seclusion, having to account every night for your actions, for your
thoughts, for the things you dream--ah, the dreams! The Chinese are
right, the Japanese are right. It's we Westerners who are all wrong.
It's the creative only that counts. The woman should be subordinated,
should be kept down, taught the voluptuousness of obedience. By Jove!
that's it. We don't assert ourselves. It's this confounded Anglo-Saxon