"Doubtless."
"We shall never be troubled with such a burning desire to speak," I went on scornfully.
"That is your fault. I am always willing to talk with you. I enjoy talking with you, Elsie. You are unhappy, and it grieves me sorely to know it—because—because—I am helpless. Our marriage was a—a—mistake. You will not make the best of it. You are eating your heart away with worry. I would give all I possess to have it otherwise."
"You must imagine," I said sternly, "that I am either a lunatic or an idiot, otherwise you would not talk to me so senselessly."
"I imagine nothing of the kind."
"Then you did when you married me?"
"I did not. I thought, as we said so often, that you were in earnest when you declared you would be satisfied with quiet friendship instead of impetuous passion—"
"Then, as you imagine you were mistaken, you propose allowing matters to remain as they are."
"I do not see what else to do. Elsie, why
