“Hm-m—I suppose it does. I’ve never yet got to the point, myself, where I can really enjoy making over my last season’s clothes. I try to think they look as good as new, but they never do. I’m afraid I haven’t enough imagination. But all that doesn’t make any difference now. You’re married to Donald, and you’ve got to make the best of it. What a pity you didn’t choose Billy! Half a million—hm-m—it sounds like heaven to me. I wonder if he wouldn’t like me as a second choice,” she rattled on. “We certainly ought to try to keep that money in the family, somehow.”
“Alice, don’t talk such nonsense. It isn’t Billy’s money I’m thinking of.”
“If you can persuade yourself that that’s true,” said her sister grimly, “you really must be in love with him. But what’s the use of talking about it? It’s absurd.”
Edith stood up and walked nervously over to the desk, where she began idly fumbling with the papers upon it. Presently she turned to her sister who was regarding her with an inquiring look.
“He—he wants me to leave Donald,” she cried, in a half-frightened way.
“No! What a nerve!” Alice seemed to regard the whole affair as a huge joke.
“He says that I am wearing myself out,” continued her sister, “that I am wasting all the youth, and sweetness and joy of life, grinding on here in this hopeless situation. He says that, if Donald really loved me, he would see that, too.”
“It sounds like the latest best seller. The hero always says that to the neglected wife, doesn’t he?”