He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room. No matter. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. “Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why are things as they are?”—“Why are human beings viviparous?”—“Why are people hungry thrice a day?”—“Why does one faint at danger?” She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. But she did not speak. "Out of the twelve hundred subjects I've tucked up, I may safely place half to his account.
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