His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. ’ ‘Do you indeed?’ rejoined the old lady, twinkling at him, and urging him towards the door. ‘Have no fear,’ he uttered soothingly, reaching out to pat her free hand. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls.
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