“Do I?” asked Lena ominously. “Is there anything else?”
“Well, since you give me the chance to say it, dear,” Dick’s tone was now apologetic, “I’d a little rather you wore your dinner gowns higher. I know many women do wear things like yours to-night, and your dressmaker has dictated to you; but I think the extremes are not well-bred. Just look at the best women. Look at Mrs. Lenox and Madeline—”
But here Lena gave so sharp a little cry of anger that Dick stopped dismayed.
“How dare you?” she screamed. “How dare you hold up a girl you know I hate as an example to me! If she’s so perfect, why didn’t you marry her? I’m sure she wanted you badly enough.”
Dick shrank back a little. To him love—the desire for marriage—was hardly a thing to be touched by outside hands. He wished Lena would not tear down the veils of reticence so ruthlessly.
“Lena, she did not want me at all. Be reasonable.”
“Well, then, you took me just because you couldn’t get her, did you? Everything she does and wears is perfection. And there’s nothing about me that’s right!” Lena had now come to the point of angry tears.
“There’s one thing about you that’s right; and that’s my arms, sweetheart.” Dick spoke sturdily in spite of trepidation, for this was a new experience to him. “You know I love you, Lena, I did not mean to hurt you. I thought only that you were a sweet little inexperienced woman, and that you would welcome any hints from your husband’s worldly wisdom. Come, don’t turn into an Undine, dear, and get the carriage all wet,”—for his wife was now sobbing on his shoulder.
“You’ve told me lots of times that I was perfect,” she cried. “I don’t see why you want to change me now. You’re so inconsistent, Dick.”
“I wish that I could make up for my brutality,” said Dick. “How can I, Lena? I feel like the fellow that threw a catsup bottle at his wife’s head at the breakfast-table and then felt so badly when he saw the nasty stuff trickling down her pretty curls that he brought her home a pair of diamond earrings for dinner.”