“Oh, never! That would be a public confession. I’ll stay here if you don’t mind,” and she sank into an armchair by the fire.
“Coley isn’t coming?” she inquired.
“No,” said Jane. “I had a headache.”
Nellie Pennington sighed gratefully.
“You know, Jane, Coley is a nice fellow, but he’s just about as plastic as the Pyramid of Cheops. You’ve done wonders with him, of course, and he is really quite bearable now, but it must have been wearing, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, no,” Jane smiled. “He’s quite obedient.”
“I sometimes wonder whether men are worth the pains we women waste on them.” Mrs. Pennington went on reflectively. “When we are single they adore us for our defects; married, we have a real difficulty in making them love us for our virtues. But love abhors the word obedience. It knows no arbitrary laws. An obedient husband is like an egg without salt and far more indigestible. You’re not going to marry Coley, are you, Jane?” she finished abruptly.
Jane paled and her head tilted the fraction of an inch. It was the first time Nellie Pennington had approached the subject so directly, and Jane had not decided whether to silence her questioner at once or to laugh her off when she broke in again.
“Oh, don’t reply if you don’t want to. I’m sure nothing I could say would have the slightest influence on your decision. It doesn’t matter in the least whom one marries anyway, because whatever the lover is, the husband is always sure to be something quite different. If Coley is obedient now, married he’ll be a Tartar.”