ness. A goodness that is just a mental philandering,—that nobody recognizes."
"Not even the philanderers," Austin said, much amused. "Really, Jane, I don't think you need be cast down, 'long as they're 'appy an' virtuous.'"
"I am cast down; because—Dora—"
"Is the child jealous?"
"No—oh no. She isn't jealous. She's too innocent to be jealous—or too stupid; I don't know which."
"Same thing," Henry Austin said, laconically.
"Now stop! I won't listen to such horrid cynical talk. I'm ashamed of you. But, seriously, Henry, it's Mormonism, you know."
"Jane—isn't that 'language'?"
The old lady on the yellow sofa chuckled and sighed. "The situation calls for 'language,'" she said, smoothing the lap of her purple satin gown with a plump, jewelled little hand; "and I only say it to you, Henry. You've been in love with Adèle, and you've dandled Dora on your knee, and you'll take my word about Augustine. Yes, Mormonism. Adèle is the wife of his mind, and Dora is the wife of his bosom. And it isn't—pretty."
"It has an ambiguous sound," he agreed, meditatively.
"And yet, you know, it's so natural," she complained. "Adèle made him. She created him. She introduced him to a finger-bowl and a dress coat—yes, positively, to a dress coat. She woke his mind; she unearthed his genius; she pulled innumerable wires (Adèle always was a wire-puller, in her sweet way),—she pulled managerial wires and got him a hearing—a thing he never could have done himself. And once heard, his success was assured. In two years, Henry, he could make his own terms, positively. Oh yes, a genius, of course. Well, practically, he is hers; he ought to be."
"Then why on earth didn't he marry her?" inquired Henry Austin.
"My dear, she was ten years older than he, to begin with. And, anyhow, Dora, at twenty, pretty and good—not too keen, but so good; why, it was just the natural thing to marry Dora. In a way, it was a sort of tribute and return to Adèle; Adèle was bitterly poor, and yet, of course, Augustine couldn't simply support her out of gratitude. To marry her daughter was just the natural thing. Now Adèle has every comfort. Why, the man has his yacht. Adèle was off on it all last summer. She's very fond of the water."
"Did Adèle like the match?"
Mrs. Strong sighed and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Why, really—I don't know. She said she did. She said it was perfectly beautiful. And Adèle is too honest to lie. If she hadn't been pleased, she could have held her tongue; but she quite gushed—after a while. Just at first she seemed to me a little dazed. Lizzie Dean told me she saw her the day that Augustine told her he was in love with Dora, and Lizzie said she seemed sort of dazed; Lizzie said she said, 'I never dreamed of such a thing!' Well, then, afterwards, she gushed. But she is sincere, Henry."
"I must say," he said, "that the marriage seems a sort of poetical justice. Mother finds clod in barn-yard; waves wand; clod turns into fairy prince, marries daughter, and presents mother with a yacht. Yes, I call it fitting."
"Well, I called it fitting myself just at first. I didn't know that this intellectual affaire was going to be kept up."
"And it is?"
"My dear, she lives with them! He can't see himself in a part until she points it out. They go over every word and gesture and inflection together. His gratitude is the mental philandering, you see. Dora, I must admit, is a gentle blank, so far as his art goes. She's a nice little housekeeper; nice little mother; sees that his buttons are sewed on—if such a celestial being has buttons! You see, one woman ministers to his body and the other to his soul. Adèle's artistic perception is more exquisite than that of any human creature I ever knew."
"And her moral perception?"
"I tell you, they are good people!" she said, sharply; "I thought you would understand, Henry."
"I guess I understand," he told her; "there are tragic possibilities there, Jane?"
"There are tragic probabilities," she said, frowning. "Now, Henry, this is a dead, dead secret—but look here; here's an illustration of the way things go in
