"Oh yes, he's very nice. But he seems to—sort of think you neglect me."
"But other men go away, for months at a time, shooting big game, or anything of that sort. Only shows he doesn't know.... What an ass he must be!" Chetwode's voice showed slight irritation.
"No he's not. He was quite disappointed that you came home the other night when Savile went to fetch you. He went away at once."
"Poor chap!—Well, ask him to dinner," relented Chetwode.
She got up and went close to him. "You're hopeless! Chetwode, do you really care for me—or do you like your curiosities and things better?"
Lord Chetwode looked slightly nervous. His one mortal horror was anything that bore the most distant resemblance to a scene.
"My dear child, why, surely you know you are far and away the most beautiful thing I am ever likely to have in my collection!" he said, most admiringly.
She turned away. She was terribly hurt; in her heart she had always feared her husband regarded her as a bibelot. The subject was, to her, too painful to discuss further. That he was sure of her—that showed knowledge of her—that she deserved. But he ought to have minded about little things as she would. And he ought not always to be satisfied to leave her safe as the gem of the collection—and just come and look at it sometimes.
Chetwode returned to the catalogue, and then said, "Of course you know I'm going to Teignmouth's for a week."
"And you don't want me to go?"