simply born to be a husband." Horror filled Linda at the other's
implication. "Yes," the elder insisted; "you couldn't do better;
except, perhaps, for those girls of his. But then you'd have no
trouble making them miserable. It's time to talk to you seriously
about marriage." The smoke from the cigarette eddied in a gray veil
across her unrefreshed face.

"You're old for your age, Linda; your life has made you that; and,
like I said last night, it is rather better than not. Well, for you
marriage, and soon as possible, is the proper thing. Mind, I have
never said a word against it; only what suits one doesn't suit
another. Where it wouldn't be anything more than an old ladies' home
to me you need it early and plenty. You are too intense. That
doesn't go in the world. Men don't like it. They want their pleasure
and comfort without strings tied to them; the intensity has to be
theirs.

"What you must get through your head is that love--whatever it is--and
marriage are two different things, and if you are going to be
successful they must be kept separate. You can't do anything with a
man if you love him; but then you can't do anything with him if he
doesn't love you. That's the whole thing in a breath. I am not
crying down love, either; only I don't want you to think it is the
bread and butter while it's nothing more than those little sweet
cakes at Henri's.

"Now any girl who marries a poor man or for love--they are the same
thing--is a fool and deserves what she gets. No one thanks her for
it, him least of all; because if she does love him it is only to
make them miserable. She's always at him--where did he go and why