She. If we were we should undoubtedly say a great many foolish things and quite as many false ones. He. You are cynical. She. Oh, no. Cynicism is like a cravat, very becoming to a man if properly worn, but always setting ill upon a lady. He. Did you learn that, also, in Britany? It is a country of enlightenment. Would that my wife had gone there. She. Or her husband! He. You are keen. Her husband learned bitter truths enough by staying at home. I am evidently your complement; for I had a wedding-ring sent back to me. She. And why? He. Why? Why? Who ever knows a woman’s reason! Because I refused, perhaps, to call black white, to say I was pleased by what made me angry; because— No; on the whole, since I am not making love to her, it is hardly worth while to lie to a peasant from Britany, though it is of course[63] necessary to sustain the social fictions with people nearer home. It was because the wedding-ring was a fetter that constrained my wife, body and soul; because I was as inflexible as steel. My purposes, my views, my beliefs were the Procrustean bed upon which every act of hers was measured. Voila tout! [63] She. I understand, I think. He. Oh, I have learned well enough where the blame lay in the three years since she left me. She. Three years! He. Why do you start? She. It is three years, too, since I— He. Who are you? She. It is no matter; my husband is far from here. He. That is more than I can say of my wife.
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