He. I don’t see— She. And very disagreeable. He. But— She. If you had really loved your wife, you’d always mourn for her, whatever she did. He. Good Heavens! That is like a woman. A man is expected to bear anything, everything, and if at last he does not come weeping to kiss the hand that smites him, he is heartless, forsooth! Bah! I am not a whipped puppy, thank you. [65] [65] She. Your love was, perhaps, never distinguished by meekness? He. I’m afraid not. She. It might be none the worst for that. The ideal man for whom I am looking will not be too lamblike, even in love. He. You look for an ideal man, then? She. As closely as did Diogenes. He. And your husband? She. Oh, like your wife, he should, perhaps, begin not to count. He. Good. We are sworn friends, then, until you find your ideal man. She. If you will. He. Then unmask. She. Is that in the bargain? He. Of course. Else how should we know each other again? She. But—
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