“Charles, dear, you’re very stupid. He was only married once in a church.”
“Oh, I see.”
“And if I did marry, I should be like him.” She turned to him and put her face close to his. “Unfaithful,” she pronounced clearly.
“Oh, well, Henrietta, you would still be you.”
She stepped backwards, shocked. “Charles, wouldn’t you mind?”
“Not so much,” he said stolidly, “as doing without you altogether.”
“And the other day you said you need never do that because”—she tapped his waistcoat—“because I’m here!”
He showed a face she had never seen before. “You seem to think I’m not made of flesh and blood!” he cried. “You’re wanton, Henrietta, simply wanton!” And he rushed out of the room.
She heard the front door bang; she saw his hat and stick, lying where he had put them; she smiled at them politely and then, sinking to the floor beside the fender, she let out a little moan of despair and delight. The fire chuckled and chattered and she leaned forward, her face near the bars.
“Stop talking for a minute! I want to tell you something. There’s nobody else to tell. Listen! I’m in love with him now.” She nodded her head. “Yes, with him. I know it’s ridiculous; but it’s true. Did you hear? You can laugh if you like. I don’t care. I’m in love with him. Oh, dear!”