“Because you work hard and want your meals. If you had the same necessity for living as I do, I should keep you up to it.”
“I don’t believe you would buy salmon for yourself,” said Alfred, almost vexedly; “it must be a temptation to you, so fond of it as you are.”
“Oh, no, because I have an object in view. Believe me, I often have sweetbreads for lunch.”
“But you do not fling them in my face at dinner; that is quite another matter.”
So the martyrdom went on, and Regina’s figure became smaller by degrees and beautifully less. When she had been dieting for about two months she had lost a couple of stones in weight. She had a couple of smart gowns from Madame d’Estelle in which she had allowed that adroit lady free play for her taste and imagination. The result was that she gradually presented to the eyes of her family a subdued and refined Regina, much more attractive to the outer world, but not the Regina to whom the inhabitants of Ye Dene had been accustomed.
It was about two months from the beginning of Regina’s martyrdom that Alfred Whittaker began to be aware that his wife was losing flesh. “My dear,” he said one morning, as he sat opposite his wife at the breakfast-table, “I’m not quite satisfied with that doctor of yours.”
“Why not, dear?”
“Why, I don’t think he’s doing well by you.”
“But I am so much better.”