"Do you like my dress, Bernard?"
She came towards the glittering dressing-table and turned slowly for his inspection. Her attitude, her confidence were exquisitely attractive to John. Her wifely anxiety to win her husband's approval was the prettiest thing he had ever seen. And once again the splendid rich duskiness of her hair, the gentle glow of her cheeks, the fine contours of her well-turned lips, and the fairness of her skin won his admiration. But it was not this, it was in no sense her radiant and girlish beauty that had evoked John's feelings. Mrs. Beecher Monmouth possessed beauty, but she lacked utterly the frankness and generous natural trust, the appealing femininity, in fact, which is always potent in the winning of a man's love. For it was love, and love only that John felt for this girl who was Bernard Treves's wife, who was nothing to him, and could never be anything.
To ease the situation he told her lightly that her dress suited her to perfection.
"You said when we first met, Bernard, that this primrose colour suited me best, so I put it on to-night."
"Only to please me?" asked John.
Elaine nodded.
"Of course I like to please your father, too, Bernard," she went on. "I think he is wonderful; just the beau ideal of a fine, upright soldier. I cannot understand how you could ever have doubted his generosity."
"I didn't doubt him," John answered. "I only misunderstood him, and acted like a fool."
"But in regard to our marriage. If you had told him months ago, I am sure he would have been just as pleased as he is now. Why didn't you, Bernard?"
"I don't know," John answered. "But I am sure he would have been pleased if I had been sensible enough to trust him."