"What do you think of my sister?" he asked, a propos of nothing, as they idled about the Capo di Sorrento and on the road to Massa.
"An absurd question."
"You mean that I cannot suppose you would tell me the truth."
"And just as little the untruth. I do not know your sister."
"We had a horrible scene that day I turned up. I behaved brutally to her, poor girl."
"I'm afraid you have often done so."
"Often. I rave at her superstition; how can she help it? But she's a good girl, and has wit enough if she might use it. Oh, if some generous, large-brained man would drag her out of that slough of despond!—What a marriage that was! Powers of darkness, what a marriage!"
Mallard was led to no question.
"I shall never understand it, never," went on Elgar, in excitement. "If you had seen that oily beast! I don't know what criterion girls have. Several of my acquaintance have made marriages that set my hair on end. Lives thrown away in accursed ignorance—that's my belief."
Mallard waited for the next words, expecting that they would torture him. There was a long pause, however, and what he awaited did not come.