The foam was now running high up the beach. I splashed straight through it, in spite of my shoes. But Cornelia, lighter footed, danced with it like a partner in some fantastic minuet, returning to my side and my argument only when the creamy gliding meander ebbed.
"A man's power to impart his best self," I said, "depends on the woman's power to receive it."
"Of course," said Cornelia, "all that any man, even a genius, asks of his wife is intelligence enough to appreciate him."
"No," I said, "that isn't true. That is going by. There was a time when a husband thought of himself as the pianist, and of his wife as standing behind him to turn the pages of his music. But nowadays we begin to think that the ideal concert is by two performers on perfectly synchronized independent instruments—not soloist and accompanist but, say, organist and pianist, each as important as the other."
"Nonsense!" said Cornelia, "We shall never expect that. But we do like our accompaniment to
