If anyone had suggested that Langdon
Masters enjoyed Madeleine's intellect he would have told it about
town as the joke of the season.
Madeleine indulged in no introspection. She had suffered too much in
the past not to quaff eagerly of the goblet when it was full and ask
for nothing more. If she paused to realize how dependent she had
become on the constant society of Langdon Masters and that literature
was now no more than the background of life, she would have shrugged
her shoulders gaily and admitted that she was having a mental
flirtation, and that, at least, was as original as became them both.
They were safe. The code protected them. He was her husband's friend
and they were married. What was, was.
But in truth she never went so far as to admit that Masters and the
books she loved were not one and inseparable. She could not imagine
herself talking with him for long on any other subject, save,
perhaps, the politics of the nation--which, in truth, rather bored
her. As for small talk she would as readily have thought of
inflicting the Almighty in her prayers.
Nor was it often they drifted into personalities or the human
problems. One day, however, he did ask her tentatively if she did not
think that divorce was justifiable in certain circumstances.
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