She is a fortune-teller and a vessel for man’s pleasure. He was a manly man, free from any strong maternal strain, and he had loved his dark-eyed, dainty bright-colored, and active little wife with a real vein of passion in his sentiment. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. “Look here,” he said, protruding his eyes; “why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. You never can go back.
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