And suddenly the plump little silk-clad hostess stood up, her face working, her eyes bright with tears that would not wink away.
"All right, I'll tell you the truth."
"No, Cele—no!"
"Sit down, Celia. Beck's a little off to-day."
"Don't pay any attention to her. Waspish old girl, that's what——"
Beck regarded her victim between narrowed lids. "You're afraid."
"I'm not. Why should I be. Orville's the kindest man in the world. I thought so before I married him, and now I know it."
"Oh—kind!" scoffed Beck. "But what's that got to do with happiness? Happiness!"
"If you mean transports—no. Orville's fifty. He's set in his ways. I—I'm nearer thirty-seven than thirty-six. And at that I've only lied one year about my age—don't tell Orville. He's crazy about me. He just follows me around this flat like a—like a child. And I suppose that's really what he is to me now—a kind of big, wonderful child. I have to pamper him, and reason with him, and punish him, and coax, and love, and—tend him. I suppose ten years ago we'd—he'd——"
She stopped suddenly, with a little broken cry.