Roland could hardly believe it: so young a woman married to that shrivelled, prosaic solicitor.
"Oh, yes," said Muriel, "they've been married nearly three years now; and they've got such a darling little girl: Rosemary; you'll see her to-morrow. She's got the loveliest hair. It crinkles when you run your fingers through it."
"But—oh, well, I suppose it's rather cheek, but he's years older."
"Uncle Arnold?" replied Muriel cheerfully. "Oh, yes, I think he must be nearly fifty." Then after a pause, light-heartedly as though the possession of a family skeleton was something of an honour, "I don't think they like each other much."
"How do you know?" Roland asked.
"They are always quarrelling. I never saw such a couple for it. If there's a discussion he's only got to take one side for her to take the other."
"Well, I don't see very well how she could be in love with him, he's such a...." Roland paused, realising that it would be hardly good manners to disparage Muriel's uncle. But she did not intend him to leave the sentence unfinished.
"Yes," she said, "such a.... Go on!"
"But I didn't mean that."