“Why not? I say it is a burning shame to keep her mewed up here. She would pick up a duke, at least, in London; and, as sure as fate, that little painter fellow will get her if she stays at Barton much longer.”
“You seem to be quite insane upon this subject, Sarah.”
“Oh yes, of course. Everything that you can’t see through is absurd; it always was so, Luke. When you have got as far as the end of your nose there is an end to your prospect, unless you are thinking about what crop should follow wheat or barley.”
“Now, then; get into a passion. You said you would talk quietly if I would stay.”
“I am not in a passion—nothing of the kind,” said Mrs. S., knitting at double-quick speed.
“Very well, then, mind you don’t get into a passion,” said Luke, smiling.
“Phœbe Tallant was made to shine in society, and to marry well; and it is horrible to see wealth and power going out of a young girl’s grasp just because nobody puts her anywhere near the prize.”
“Happiness never seems to form part of your philosophy, Sarah.”
“Wealth and power, Luke—isn’t that happiness? To wear real diamonds, and heaps of them; to drive in the parks; to be presented at court; to make other women envy you. Happiness! Talk of clear consciences and all that stuff, to set a room full of women hating you for your wealth and beauty is bliss—joy above everything!”
Luke took his pipe from his mouth and gazed in astonishment at his wife, who had ceased knitting, and was looking out beyond where he sat,—but not at the quiet rural picture spread out before her. She was simply looking at her own thoughts.