"Marion," said he at last, "has any one been talking to you about my affairs?"
"No indeed," answered Mrs. Darche in evident surprise at the question, but with such ready frankness that he could not doubt her.
"No," he repeated. "I see that no one has. I only asked because people are always so ready to talk about what they cannot understand, and are generally so perfectly certain about what they do not know. I thought Dolly Maylands might have been chattering."
"Dolly does not talk about you, John."
"Oh! I wonder why not. Does she dislike me especially—I mean more than most people—more than you do, for instance?"
"John!"
"My dear, do not imagine that it grieves me, though it certainly does not make life more agreeable to be disliked. On the whole, I hardly know which I prefer—my father's perpetual outspoken praise, or your dutiful and wifely hatred."
"Why do you talk like that?"
Mrs. Darche did not leave her writing-table, but turned in her chair and faced him, still holding her pen.
"I fancy there is some truth in what I say," he answered calmly. "Of course you know that you made a mistake when you married me. You were never in love with me—and you did not marry me for my money."