“What you have said is very interesting to me.  I wish to tell you how much I, too, have enjoyed our friendship.  The first time we met I felt sure we should be sympathetic, and we have been, haven’t we?  One of the fine things about friendships between men and women in this country is that they can really get to know each other without—­er—­harm to either.  Isn’t it?  It’s such a pleasure to know people really, and I feel as if I had known you, as if we had known each other really.  I’ve never known any man exactly in that way, and I have always wanted to.  Except, of course, my husband.  And he’s extremely different—­that is, his tastes are not like yours.  It’s a happiness to me to feel that I have been of assistance to you in your work, and you have been equally helpful to me in mine.  As you say, I have never had the opportunity to learn the technical parts of art, and your books have instructed me as to that.  I have never been in New York, but I understand what you meant about your friends, those other women.  I suppose society people must be constantly diverted from serious work—­from the intellectual and spiritual life.  Oh yes, we ought to write.  Our friendship mustn’t languish.  We must let each other know what we are thinking and doing.  Good-by.”

As Selma walked along the street her heart was in her mouth.  She felt pity for herself.  To just the right person she would have confessed the discovery that she had made a mistake and tied herself for life to the wrong man.  It was not so much that she fancied Littleton which distressed her, for, indeed, she was but mildly conscious of infatuation.  What disturbed her was the contrast between him and Babcock, which definite separation now forced upon her attention.  An indefinable impression that Littleton might think less of her if she were to state this soul truth had restrained her at the last moment from disclosing the secret.  Not for an instant did she entertain the idea of being false to Lewis.  Her confession would have been but a dissertation on the inexorable irony of fate, calling only for sympathy, and in no way derogating from her dignity and self-respect as a wife.  Still, she had restrained herself, and stopped just short of the confidence.  He was gone, and she would probably not see him again for years.  That was endurable.  Indeed, a recognition of the contrary would not have seemed to her consistent with wifely virtue.  What brought the tears to her eyes was the vision of continued wedlock, until death intervened, with a husband who could not understand.  Could she bear this?  Must she endure it?  There was but one answer:  She must.  At the thought she bit her lip with the intensity and sternness of a martyr.  She would be faithful to her marriage vows, but she would not let Lewis’s low aims interfere with the free development of her own life.