“Because it is so amusingly unexpected,” she informed her husband. “No two persons could be more unsuited to each other.”
Sir Peter twinkled.
“Is that recommendation likely to last?”
“She was so very indifferent, so very much swallowed up by her own ideas,” pursued his wife, unheeding; “and Arthur has a way of expecting women to flutter round him, and be flattered when he speaks. Oh, he’s a very good fellow, but that’s his little weakness, and that’s what makes me laugh. But I’m really extremely glad. It’s much better for him than marrying a woman like—well, for instance, like Helen Arbuthnot, all bitter herbs.”
Sir Peter, who was well aware that his wife was not without her jealousies, let this statement pass uncontradicted, but spoke a word or two as to Claudia.
“I suppose she knows her own mind? She hasn’t been talked into it?”
“Talked! When she was as easy to get at as a prickly pear. What a dear old donkey you are, Peter! I would have given her all sorts of good advice, and told her a hundred and fifty useful things, but I never had the chance. No. It’s very odd, but I can tell exactly what brought it about, and it’s only another instance of Arthur’s extraordinary luck. You know that day we went to Barton Towers?”
“Well?”
“Well, he said something which startled her, and, to stop it, away she dashed down the hill, and then came the smash up.”
“You call that luck, do you?”