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She was warmly congratulated. It soothed her afresh, this new importance with which she was instantly clothed. Money—she sighed, but faced it—money, even in that place where people really did try to keep their eyes well turned to the light, was a great, perhaps the greatest, power. She sighed. It oughtn’t to be so; but if it was so? And who would not be grateful, really deeply grateful, to Edgar, and put up with all his little ways, when he was so generous, so kind, and so completely devoted? Besides, his little ways would, she was sure, later on become much modified. A wife could do so much. A well-bred, intelligent wife—it was simply silly not to admit plain facts—could do everything. When she was married....
And then she found herself shrinking from the thought of when she was married. She could restrain his affection now; it was her privilege. But when she was married, it would be his privilege not to be able to be restrained. And there appeared to be no age limit to a man’s affectionateness. Here was Edgar, well over sixty and still affectionate. Really, really, thought Mrs. Luke, who even in her most ardent days had loved only with her mind.
And then one evening, nearly three weeks after the arrival of that letter of Jocelyn’s that had brought all this about, Mr. Thorpe said, ‘When’s it going to be?’
‘When is what going to be?’ she asked, starting.
To this he only replied, ‘Coy, eh?’ and sat staring at her proudly and affectionately, a hand on each knee.
Pierced by the word, Mrs. Luke hastened to say in her most level voice, ‘You mean our marriage? Surely there’s plenty of time.’
‘Time, eh? You bet there isn’t. Not for you and me. We’re no chickens, either of us.’
Mrs. Luke winced. She had never at any time tried, or wished, or pretended to be a chicken, yet to be told she wasn’t one was strangely ruffling. If it were a question of chickens, compared with Edgar she certainly was one. These things were relative. But what a way of....
And then, as before, the little maid came in with a letter, and Mr. Thorpe, vexed as before by the interruption (why that servant—well, one could hardly call a thing that size a servant; that aproned spot, then—couldn’t leave letters outside till they were wanted ...), said, curbing himself, ‘Letter, eh?’
‘From Jocelyn,’ said Mrs. Luke, who had flushed a bright flame-colour, and whose hands, as they held the letter, were shaking.
‘Thought so,’ said Mr. Thorpe in disgust.