“I could not think of fatiguing you, and men prefer to dine at a club, anyway.”
The words “Margarethe Styr” were shrieking in Mabel’s brain, but she was very proud, and rarely impolitic in any but small matters. Her mother had soothed her growing jealousy by assuring her that the great singer was far too occupied, now that all artistic London was running after her, to spare time for any man. Mabel could not crush her natural suspicions, particularly as she had discovered that he had once more thrown over the much-enduring Foreign Office, but she was determined not to alienate this puzzling young Englishman, whom she understood less every day, by “making scenes.” “Don’t bore him!” Lady Pat had warned her before leaving for France. “Give him his head and don’t ask him questions. He would not confide in himself if he could help it. He worships you and is far too lazy to pursue any woman, or even to respond to her advances. But don’t bore him.”
Mabel, with all the American girl’s independence of spirit, and firm belief in the inferiority of man, found such advice little to her taste, but, loving as she did, was willing to accept any that would help her to enchain her husband’s languid affections. But more than once of late she had turned cold as she asked herself if ever she could understand him, become really intimate with him. And now, kind and thoughtful as he still was, another fear was whispering. It seemed to her confirmed by his refusal of her simple request. While she might control the more direct expressions of her jealousy, the temptation was irresistible to indulge in the ancient formulæ. She dropped her arms and turned away with a quivering lip.
“I don’t believe you love me any longer!”
“How can you say such a thing?”
“Do you?”
“Of course.”
She wheeled about and regarded him steadily. It occurred to him that she looked less vapidly pretty than usual.
“If you ceased to care for me,” she said stammeringly, her eyes widening with fear, “you would kill me. I never could stand it—never—I think that is all there is to me.”
“What a dear little thing you are. As if any man could help caring for the most charming wife in England. But you should have married Stanley, who is always exactly the same. I am afraid I am not. But as for the rest—do not be silly. Now I must run. Take care of yourself and don’t think of going for a drive of more than an hour.”