“What is he like, Dick—I mean, to look at? Like a gentleman, or what?”
Shelton stifled a desire to laugh.
“He looks very well in a frock-coat,” he replied; “his father was a wine merchant.”
Antonia flicked her whip against her skirt.
“Of course,” she murmured, “I don't want to hear if there's anything I ought not.”
But instead of soothing Shelton, these words had just the opposite effect. His conception of the ideal wife was not that of one from whom the half of life must be excluded.
“It's only,” he stammered again, “that it's not cheerful.”
“Oh, all right!” she cried, and, touching her horse, flew off in front. “I hate dismal things.”
Shelton bit his lips. It was not his fault that half the world was dark. He knew her words were loosed against himself, and, as always at a sign of her displeasure, was afraid. He galloped after her on the scorched turf.
“What is it?” he said. “You 're angry with me!”