“We were afraid you’d be prejudiced against titles. You’ve been with that eccentric Mr. Armitage so much—and you always have been against the sort of things Margot and I like.”
“I’ve no objection to titles,” said I. “In fact, I think Margot will be happier if she marries a title. You’ve educated her so well that she’ll never see the man or think of him.”
“How little you know her!” cried Edna, pathetically. “And how unjust to me your prejudices make you. I’ve brought her up to be all refinement—all sentiment—all heart. She looks only at the highest and best.”
“At the duke,” said I.
“Certainly at the duke,” said she. “Her tastes are for the life where a woman can show her beauty of soul to the best advantage and can do the most good. There is no career for a woman in America. But over here a woman married into the aristocracy has a real career.”
“At what?” said I.
“As a recognized social leader. As a leader in charities and all sorts of good movements.”
“Ah, I see,” said I—and there I stopped, for I had learned not to argue with my wife—or with anyone else, male or female—when the subject is sheer twaddle. “Yes, I think Margot would do well to marry over here and to have a dazzling career. I’m sure she’d never get tired of this—pardon me—treadmill. I observe that it’s better organized than the imitation one we have over in ‘the States.’”
“I should say!” cried Edna. “You’ve no idea how cheap and common the best you have in New York is beside the social life here. I’ve been here only a year, but already there have been the greatest changes in me. Don’t you notice?”
“I do,” said I. “And I can honestly say you have changed for the better. You’ve learned to cover it up.”