I cannot, try as I will, remember the people's different names, or whom Miss Jones is engaged to, or whom Miss Brown. Quantities of these people come out to tea, and those afternoons are difficult to bear. I feel very tired when evening comes, after having had to sit there and hear them talk. Their very phraseology is as of a different world.
Augustus has not been drunk since the night at Harley, but often I think his eyes look as if he had had too much to drink, and it is on these occasions he is rude to me.
I believe in his heart he is very fond of me still, but his habit of bullying and blustering often conceals it.
He continually accuses me of being a cold statue, and regrets that he has married a lump of ice. And when I ask him in what way I could please him better, he says I must love him.
"I told you before we were married that I never should, but I would be civil to you," I said to him at last, exasperated beyond all endurance. "You agreed to the bargain, and I do my best to keep it. I never disobey you or cross you in a single thing. What have you to complain of?"
"Everything!" he said, in a fury, thumping the table so hard that a little Dresden-china figure fell down and broke into pieces on the parquet floor. "Everything! Your great eyes are always sad. You never take the least interest in anything about any of us. You are docile—yes; and obedient—yes; and when I hold you in my arms I might be holding a stuffed doll for all the response you make. And when I kiss you, you shudder!"
He walked up and down the room excitedly.
"Oh, we have all noticed it!" he continued. "You are polite, and quiet, and—and—damned cold! Does Amelia ever let herself go before you? Never! The mater herself feels it. You are as different to any of us as if you came from Mars!"
"But you knew that always. You used to tell me that was what you liked about me," I said, wearily. "I cannot change my nature any more than—than Amelia can hers."
"Why not, pray?"