Curiously, I didn't try to persuade myself
that I was in love; I take credit for this, my dear! No, it was a
marriage of reason. I had money, which Mr. Borisoff had not. He
really liked me, and does still. But we are reasonable as ever. If
we felt obliged to live always together, we should be very
uncomfortable. As it is, I travel for six months when the humour
takes me, and it works _a merveille_. Into my husband's life, I
don't inquire; I have no right to do so, and I am not by nature a
busybody. As for my own affairs, Mr. Borisoff is not uneasy; he has
great faith in me--which, speaking frankly, I quite deserve. I am,
my dear Irene, a most respectable woman--there comes in my
parentage."
"Then," said Irene, looking at her own beautiful fingernails, "your
experience, after all, is disillusion."
"Moderate disillusion," replied the other, with her humorously
judicial air. "I am not grievously disappointed. I still find my
husband an interesting--a most interesting--man. Both of us
being so thoroughly reasonable, our marriage may be called a
success."
"Clearly, then, you don't think love a _sine qua non_?"
"Clearly not. Love has nothing whatever to do with marriage, in the
statistical--the ordinary--sense of the term. When I say love, I
mean love--not domestic affection. Marriage is a practical concern
of mankind at large; Love is a personal experience of the very few.
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