“One has to pass the time,” said I.
“How does Mary Kirkwood pass the time?”
This unexpected and—except sub-consciously—accidental question, staggered me for an instant. “I don’t know much about it,” said I. “She has a house—and she looks after it, herself. She reads, I believe. She has gardens—and they use up a lot of time. Then she rides.”
Edna yawned. “It sounds dull,” she said. “But domestic people are always dull. And she is certainly domestic. I wonder why she doesn’t marry again.”
I was silent.
“Are any men attentive to her? It seems to me I heard something about a novelist—some poor man who is after her money.”
I was choking with rage and jealousy.
“Did you see any such man about?”
I contrived to compose myself for a calm reply. “No one answering to your description,” said I.
“Do you like her?”