“My husband is very fond of quiet,” said Marie. “We go out but seldom.”
“Poor old gentleman!” said Clotilde mockingly. “I hope you nurse him well.”
Marie started, but she said nothing, and Clotilde went on:
“Isn’t it nice, dear, to be one’s own mistress, with plenty of money at one’s command, and as much jewellery as one likes? Do you remember how we used to long for it all?”
“Yes, I remember,” replied Marie, sighing in spite of herself.
“You remember? Yes, and you sigh about it. Why, Rie, you ought to be as merry as the day is long. Lord Henry is a dear old fellow. How much older, though, he seems than Elbraham! I say, Rie, wouldn’t you like to change?”
“The conversation?” said Marie. “Yes; certainly.”
“No, my dear, not the conversation, but husbands. Poor old Rie! I rather pity you, for Lord Henry is decidedly slow.”
“Clotilde,” said Marie, with dignity. “Lord Henry Moorpark is my dear husband and your guest. The way in which you are speaking of him gives me pain.”
“Pain? Why, Rie, what stuff you are talking—and to me! Heigho! it seems very hard upon us that we should have had to marry these wretched old men, instead of such fellows as—say Captain Glen.”