"There have been women," said Lady Rossiter, with tears in her eyes, and in her voice that peculiar emotional quality which indicates that the general is merely being used to indicate the particular, "there have been women who have waited all their lives long for just such an opportunity of giving."
"On the whole, I am of opinion that the majority of fiancés would prefer not to provide the opportunity."
"Ah, Julian, it's easy enough for you to be cynical. But to me it's simply inconceivable—how she could do it. How any woman could be so utterly heartless——"
"Didn't Clarence Isbister marry somebody else last year?"
"Thank God, yes."
Lady Rossiter was always ready, in a reverent and uplifted manner, to render verbal recognition to her Maker. "Thank God, it didn't destroy his faith in women. He married a true, pure, sweet, loving girl—and one in his own class of life—just a well-bred English maiden."
"And what happened to the other one—Miss Marchrose?"
"I don't know, but she was very badly off, and had been teaching when Clarence met her—of course, it was the money and position that made her accept him, one supposes."
"Only the price was too high when it included attendance on an invalid?" suggested Sir Julian, with a malicious satisfaction in thus encouraging oblivion of the, "Is it kind, is it wise, is it true?" axiom.
Perhaps a similar recollection flashed rather tardily across Lady Rossiter's mind, for she replied with circumspection: