"
In the lovely old garden, in the still meadows, and on the
sheep-cropped hillsides, they had many a long talk. Now that Irene
was as good as married, Mrs. Borisoff used less reserve in speaking
of her private circumstances; she explained the terms on which she
stood with her husband.
"Marriage, my dear girl, is of many kinds; absurd to speak of it as
one and indivisible. There's the marriage of interest, the marriage
of reason, the marriage of love; and each of these classes can be
almost infinitely subdivided. For the majority of folk, I'm quite
sure it would be better not to choose their own husbands and wives,
but to leave it to sensible friends who wish them well. In England,
at all events, they _think_ they marry for love, but that's mere
nonsense. Did you ever know a love match? I never even heard of one,
in my little world. Well," she added, with her roguish smile,
"putting yourself out of the question."
Irene's countenance betrayed a passing inquietude. She had an air of
reflection; averted her eyes; did not speak.
"The average male or female is _never_ in love," pursued Helen.
"They are incapable of it. And in this matter I--_moi qui vous
parle_--am average. At least, I think I am; all evidence goes to
prove it, so far. I married my husband because I thought him the
most interesting man I had ever met. That was eight years ago, when
I was two-and-twenty.
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