"I do believe you're growing cold."
"I don't feel like being messed with tonight."
"Oh, very well," said he sulkily. Then, forgetting his ill humor after a few minutes of watching her graceful movements and gestures as she took off her dress and made her beautiful hair ready for the night, he burst out in a very different tone: "You don't know how glad I am that you're dependent on me again. You'll not be difficult any more."
A moment's silence, then Susan, with a queer little laugh,
"Men don't in the least mind—do they?"
"Mind what?"
"Being loved for money." There was a world of sarcasm in her accent on that word loved.
"Oh, nonsense. You don't understand yourself," declared he with large confidence. "Women never grow up. They're like babies—and babies, you know, love the person that feeds them."
"And dogs—and cats—and birds—and all the lower orders."
She took a book and sat in a wrapper under the light.
"Come to bed—please, dear," pleaded he.
"No, I'll read a while."