“And you love him for his youth?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “For that and—he is wonderfully sagacious—and so gentle.”
“And I was never gentle, was I?” I said.
“No! As restless and as urgent as the wind,” she said, and I saw a last flicker of the old terror.
“Where is George?” I asked.
“In bed,” she replies briefly. “He’s recovering from one of his orgies. If I were Meg I would not live with him.”
“Is he so bad?” I asked.
“Bad!” she replied. “He’s disgusting, and I’m sure he’s dangerous. I’d have him removed to an inebriate’s home.”
“You’d have to persuade him to go,” said Tom, who had come into the room again. “He does have dreadful bouts, though! He’s killing himself, sure enough. I feel awfully sorry for the fellow.”
“It seems so contemptible to me,” said Emily, “to become enslaved to one of your likings till it makes a beast of you. Look what a spectacle he is for his children, and what a disgusting disgrace for his wife.”