It may well be believed that we had not yet seen much company in our little house. To parties my husband had a great dislike; evening parties he eschewed utterly, and never accepted an invitation to dinner, except it were to the house of a friend, or to that of one of my few relatives in London, whom, for my sake, he would not displease. There were not many, even among his artist-acquaintances, whom he cared to visit; and, altogether, I fear he passed for an unsociable man. I am certain he would have sold more pictures if he had accepted what invitations came in his way. But to hint at such a thing would, I knew, crystallize his dislike into a resolve.
One day, after I had got quite strong again, as I was sitting by him in the study, with my baby on my knee, I proposed that we should ask some friends to dinner. Instead of objecting to the procedure upon general principles, which I confess I had half anticipated, he only asked me whom I thought of inviting. When I mentioned the Morleys, he made no reply, but went on with his painting as if he had not heard me; whence I knew, of course, that the proposal was disagreeable to him.
"You see, we have been twice to dine with them," I said.
"Well, don't you think that enough for a while?"
"I'm talking of asking them here now."
"Couldn't you go and see your cousin some morning instead?"
"It's not that I want to see my cousin particularly. I want to ask them to dinner."
"Oh!" he said, as if he couldn't in the least make out what I was after, "I thought people asked people because they desired their company."
"But, you see, we owe them a dinner."
"Owe them a dinner! Did you borrow one, then?"