"Yes, and you used to be very rude," put in Kent perfunctorily. "My wife isn't! I can be depressed now without being abused."
Cynthia laughed. She was very pretty where she lay back in the rocker by the window. Her face was a trifle drawn now, but she looked girlish and graceful still. She looked a wife of whom any man might be proud.
"You didn't mention it," she said; "I didn't know. But I don't see anything wonderful in what you quoted, I must say! Do you, Mr. Turquand? I'm sure 'sickly-coloured, airless, doesn't mean anything at all."
"It means a good deal to me," said Kent. "I'd give a fiver to have found that line."
"Cousins wouldn't give you any more for your book if you had," said Turquand. "Put money in thy purse! I suppose you'll stick to Cousins?"
"Why not? Life's too short to find a publisher who'll pay you what you think you're worth; and Cousins are affable. Affability covers a multitude of sins, and there's a lot of compensation in a compliment. Cousins senior told me I had a 'great gift.'"
"Perhaps he was referring to his hundred pounds."
"He was referring to my talent, though I says it as shouldn't. That was your turn, Cynthia!"
"Yes," said Turquand; "a wife's very valuable at those moments, isn't she, Mrs. Kent?"
"How do you mean?" said Cynthia, who found the conversational pace inconveniently rapid.