than we have ever been since. Still, as time went on, of course we accumulated 'things in common'—actual things and experiences and acquaintances; and as many of them—nearly all of them—were nice things and pleasant acquaintances and agreeable experiences, I was not dissatisfied; and I began to believe there wasn't much more to be had from life than just the kind of satisfaction I had found. I believed, or pretended to believe, what you were saying last summer: that the 'inner life' is of small consequence, and that everything that is precious can be—what did you call it?—'externalized,' 'objectified.' Do you really believe it yourself?"
"I try to keep in mind," I explained, "all that can be said for that theory. It is a kind of compromise, a second-best sort of theory, which many of us have to accept, when we are starving, or when a death takes place in the inner chamber of our lives. That's what our wits are for, isn't it—to help us put up gracefully with what we have to put up with—grace or no grace?"
"But the theory is worthless," cried Cornelia; "it's absolutely worthless, when one is in trouble, in serious trouble! I suppose I have had less of it than anyone I know. As I look over my life before
