The following conversation took place at a dance, it is pretty nearly word for word. Said she with a sigh, “Ah! you men can escape your troubles, we poor women cannot.” “How?” “You know how, I expect, — or you are very much belied, — nobody blames you men.” “But an unhappy home can never be escaped.” “True, but you men can get forgetfulness, and keep out of it as you do.” “Who says I do?” “Ah!” “What do they say?” “I must not tell you.” “Do.” “Well, that you are very fond of the ladies.” “So I am.” “I knew it.” “Is there any harm in that?” “You know what I mean.” “I don't know, — do explain.” “You are a libertine, I expect.” “I should like to hear from your lips exactly what you mean.” She laughed. “I dare say you would, — but you won't.” “Then I am left in ignorance.” “Very ignorant, I dare say.” “I like to talk, walk, ride and dance with them, — I love to embrace them in the waltz.” “I know you do, and if you dance with me again don't hold me so close.” “I love you to be close to me — does it offend you?” “Not at all - but people may talk.” “I should like to be as close to you as man and woman could.” “Hush!” “I mean nothing.” “Of course not.” “I like to feel your breath on my face.” “They say you are a rake.” “Would you be anything else if you were placed like me?” “No, I would do as you do.” “Then you like my being a rake?” “No, — no.” “Are you a rake?” “I would be if I dared.” “Dear Mrs. Y***s***e, let us be rakes to-gether.” “Oh! naughty.” “You evidently don't under-stand me.” “Too well, and I also often feel quite reckless, for I have nothing to care about, no sister, my mother dead, no child, and such a home-life,” — and tears rose in her eyes. “It is sad, — don't cry, — I know also what sadness is, and what you must feel, — I wish you had a child.” “Yes, it would make me a home, — and yet a child of his! ah! I thank God we have none.” This was said with all the abandonment of an unhappy woman. Then she rose suddenly, and bidding me good-bye, left. I had never before, I think, alluded to her husband when conversing with her.
I met her at a dinner-party soon afterward, and took her down to table, — she I suppose was then thirty years old. She had a lovely neck, fine hazel eyes, and dark wavy hair. I pitied her. The conversation took this turn. “How strange things happen, some have such flocks of children which they don't want, rich people who want them none.” “People without children should change partners,” said I. (This was in the drawing-room after dinner.) “Hush!” said she, looking me full in the face. Her own face flushed, she stared at me, her breast gave violent heaves and her mouth slightly opened. I thought I had gone too far, had offended her, and was about to say I hoped I had not done so, when the hostess asked her to play. “Turn over the music-leaves,” said she to me, — and I did. She sang divinely, looking up at me as she sang; but although I saw she was agitated, I did not notice anything else, nor did I think about anything but what I said.
I knew that involuntarily I had been guilty of a breech of good manners by those words, was mad with my-self, and hoped she would attribute it to wine. Her husband was of the party, but did not come upstairs after dinner. When her carriage was announced I offered to see her to it, but she took the arm of the host, and went off looking at me very kindly. “She has for-gotten it,” thought I. The husband, who was groggy, was in the hall and went home with her.
Conversation when we met next was about children, but I was unconscious of the tendency of her remarks, nor had I a glimmering of what was in her mind. “Yes, children are a bond of union they say.” “How can they be, if husband and wife are apart in taste, habits, and feeling?” “They say however bad a husband may be that a woman loves him if he be the father of her child,” I remarked. “I don't believe it,” she replied, and became quite agitated.
