And on each side of us was the nicest set imaginable--you know, dearest, the sort of men and women that can't be imitated.

AUBREY.

Yes, yes. Eat some more fruit.

PAULA.

But I haven't told you the best part of my dream.

AUBREY.

Tell me.

PAULA.

Well, although we had been married only such a few years, I seemed to know by the look on their faces that none of our guests had ever heard anything--anything--anything peculiar about the fascinating hostess.

AUBREY.

That's just how it will be, Paula. The world moves so quickly.

That's just how it will be.

PAULA.

[_With a little grimace._] I wonder! [_Glancing at the fire._] Ugh!

do throw another log on.

AUBREY.

[_Mending the fire._] There. But you mustn't be here long.

PAULA.

Hospitable wretch! I've something important to tell you. No, stay where you are. [_Turning from him, her face averted._] Look here, that was my dream, Aubrey; but the fire went out while I was dozing, and I woke up with a regular fit of the shivers. And the result of it all was that I ran upstairs and scribbled you a letter.

AUBREY.

Dear baby!

PAULA.

Remain where you are. [_Taking a letter from her pocket._] This is it. I've given you an account of myself, furnished you with a list of my adventures since I--you know. [_Weighing the letter in her hand._] I wonder if it would go for a penny. Most of it you're acquainted with; _I've_ told you a good deal, haven't I?

AUBREY.

Oh, Paula!

PAULA.

What I haven't told you I daresay you've heard from others. But in case they've omitted anything--the dears--it's all here.

AUBREY.

In Heaven's name, why must you talk like this to-night?

PAULA.

It may save discussion by-and-by, don't you think? [_Holding out the letter._] There you are.

AUBREY.

No, dear, no.

PAULA.

Take it. [_He takes the letter._] Read it through after I've gone, and then--read it again, and turn the matter over in your mind finally. And if, even at the very last moment, you feel you--oughtn't to go to church with me, send a messenger to Pont Street, any time before eleven to-morrow, telling me that you're afraid, and I--I'll take the blow.

AUBREY.

Why, what--what do you think I am?

PAULA.

That's it. It's because I know you're such a dear good fellow that I want to save you the chance of ever feeling sorry you married me. I really love you so much, Aubrey, that to save you that I'd rather you treated me as--as the others have done.

AUBREY.

[_Turning from her with a cry._] Oh!

PAULA.

[_After a slight pause._] I suppose I've shocked you. I can't help it if I have.

[_She sits, with a.s.sumed languor and indifference. He turns to her, advances, and kneels by her._

AUBREY.

My dearest, you don't understand me. I--I can't bear to hear you always talking about--what's done with. I tell you I'll never remember it; Paula, can't you dismiss it? Try. Darling, if we promise each other to forget, to forget, we're bound to be happy.

After all, it's a mechanical matter; the moment a wretched thought enters your head, you quickly think of something bright--it depends on one's will. Shall I burn this, dear? [_Referring to the letter he holds in his hand._] Let me, let me!

PAULA.

[_With a shrug of the shoulders._] I don't suppose there's much that's new to you in it--just as you like.

[_He goes to the fire and burns the letter._

AUBREY.