"He's never tired," said Rose, "and he isn't a business man. He's a
lawyer--a rather special kind of lawyer. He has other lawyers, mostly,
for his clients, he's awfully enthusiastic about it. He says it's the
finest profession in the world, if you don't let yourself get dragged
down into the stupid routine of it. It certainly sounds thrilling when
he tells about it."

The actress looked round at her. "So," she said, "you follow his work as
he follows your play? He talks seriously to you about his affairs?"

"Why, yes," said Rose, "we have wonderful talks." Then she hesitated.
"At least we used to have. There hasn't seemed to be much--time, lately.
I suppose that's it."

"One question more," said the French woman, "and not an idle one--you
will believe that? _Alors!_ You love your husband. No need to ask that.
But how do you love him? Are you a little indulgent, a little cool, a
little contemptuous of the grossness of masculine clay, and still
willing to tolerate it as part of your bargain? Is that what you mean by
love? Or do you mean something different altogether--something vital and
strong and essential--the meeting of thought with thought, need with
need, desire with desire?"

"Yes," said Rose after a little silence, "that's what I mean."

She said it quietly, but without embarrassment and with full meaning;
and as if conscious of the adequacy of her answer, she forbore to
embroider on the theme. There was a momentary silence, while the French
woman gazed contemplatively out of the open window of the limousine, at
a skyscraping apartment building which jutted boldly into a curve of the