The question was asked with sudden eagerness, as if her life depended upon the reply. She was walking quickly in her agitation, going down the hill much faster than she had mounted it.
“Yes, they are both handsome girls, feather-headed, but remarkably handsome,” her husband answered carelessly.
“But Delia is the lovelier. She is your divinity.”
“Yes, she is the lovelier. The other seems a copy by an inferior hand.”
“And she is so fond of you. It was cruel to refuse her request, when she pleaded so hard.”
“How can you be so foolish or so petty, Vivien? Is it impossible for me to talk for five minutes with a handsome girl without unreasonable anger on your part?”
“Do you expect me to be pleased or happy when I see your admiration of another woman—admiration you do not even take the trouble to conceal? Do you suppose I can ever forget last winter—how I have seen you dancing with that girl night after night? Yes, I have had to sit and watch you. I was not popular, I had few partners; and it is bad form to dance more than once with one’s husband. I have seen her in your arms, with her head almost lying on your shoulder, again and again, as if it were her natural place. ‘What a handsome couple!’ I have heard people say; ‘are they engaged?’ Do you think that was pleasant for me?”
“You had but to say one word, and I would have left off dancing for ever.”
“Another sacrifice—like your marriage.”
“Vivien, you would provoke a saint.”