“My dear—!” said Alfred.
“I have worked for others during the last ten years, Alfred,” said Regina, leaning back in her chair and looking at her husband, “but I am not sure if I’ve done quite the right thing in giving up so much of my time to outside work.”
“My dear, I have never complained.”
“No, dear, you have never complained. I do not know that you might not have done.”
“My dear girl, what does it matter to me how you amuse yourself while I am at business?”
“No, there’s something in that. On the other hand, in a sense it does matter. I have worked long enough; I think I want to be a little more in my own home—I’m not so young as I was.”
“You’re worn-out, that’s about the English of it,” said Alfred Whittaker, putting his knife and fork on his plate and sitting back. “As long as it amused you it was all right; it was as good as spending your life in running from one hot, stuffy party to another. Cut it, my dear, cut it. There’s one axiom in business that never fails, ‘cut your loss’—at least, I have never known it fail yet. By-the-bye,” he said, “I have brought you a little present.”
Regina almost screamed aloud. So she had been wrong all the time; there was no hussy, his solicitude for her pale looks had been the solicitude of the old affectionate Alfred who had been ever and always her beau ideal of what a husband should be. She gasped a little. “Yes,” she said faintly.
“Something nice?” said Julia. “Jewelry?”