“Not once, to my knowledge.”
“I cannot reconcile my husband’s indifference with his fondness for money. He must know that my death will deprive him of twelve hundred a year. How do you account for it, Toussaint?”
“Pardon me, madame, but I would rather not say.”
“And why not?”
“My surmise may be uncharitable, or it might give you pain.”
“Do not fear that, Toussaint. I have surrendered what they say is the last thing a woman surrenders,—all personal vanity. So speak freely.”
“Mr. Charlton is young and good-looking, madame, and he is probably well aware that, in the event of his being left a widower, it would not be difficult for him to form a marriage connection that would bring him a much larger income than that you supply.”
“Nothing more likely, Toussaint. How strange that I can talk of these things so calmly,—eating my breakfast, thus! They say that a woman who has once truly loved must always love. What do you think, Toussaint?”
“This, madame, that if we love a thing because we think it good, and then find, on trial, that it is not good, but very bad, our love cannot continue the same.”
“But do we not, in marriage, promise to love, honor, and obey?”