“Who you are—you are my wife.”
“Yes, I know, but who my mother was, and my father. It is strange that there should be such a mystery hanging over me.”
“What puts that into your head all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. My mother was a lady, and I am, moreover, sure that I am one myself, although I have been brought up in a homely manner. No matter for that—I am a lady myself—you may laugh at me, but I feel like one, or rather how I imagine a lady should feel. I love all things bright and beautiful. I detest everything mean, paltry, and contemptible. You think I am discontented, but this is not so. Nevertheless, I am free to confess that I have tastes which, perhaps, will never be gratified—longings which never can be realised. Is it my fault that a dark mystery hangs over me?”
“Life itself is a mystery,” he answered. “The world is full of mysteries. You must not give way to these gloomy thoughts—you must not indeed, dearest.”
“No, I will not.”
“My darling,” said Tom, noting the sad tone in which the reply was made, “whatever induced you to think riches must necessarily bring happiness?”
“I don’t know, indeed,” replied his wife. “There are times when the monotony of this life seems more than I can bear.”
“You would find the same monotony in any sphere of existence. What says the poet—
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,