the discovery in exactly the same way--be touched by the childish
futility of it and yet amused at the same time--cuddle her indulgently
in his arms and soothe her disappointment;--and then urge her to look at
the funny side of it? He must know hundreds of practising lawyers. Were
there a dozen out of them all whose minds had the power to stimulate and
bring into action the full powers of his own?

Well then, what was the use of trying? If James Randolph was right--and
it seemed absurd to question it--she had just one charm for her
husband--the charm of sex. To that she owed her hours of simulated
companionship with him, his tenderness for her, his willingness to make
her pleasures his own. To that she owed the extravagantly pretty clothes
he was always urging her to buy--the house he kept her in--the servants
he paid to wait on her. Well then, why not make the best of it?

Only, if she went on much longer, feeling sick and faded like this,
she'd have nothing left to make the most of, and then where would she
be?

Oh, she was getting maudlin, and she knew it! And when she got over
feeling so weak and giddy, she'd brace up and be herself again. But for
the present, she didn't feel like seeing Portia.

But Rose's shrinking from a talk with Portia that morning was a mild
feeling compared with Portia's dread of the impending talk with Rose.
Twice she had walked by the perfect doorway of the McCrea house before
she entered it; ostensibly to give herself a little more time to
think--really, because she shrank from the ordeal that awaited her in
there.