"Write your book, Marguerite," she whispered. "Write your book." Then she stooped and kissed me, and then she gave a laugh, but there was a little sob in it.
I looked at her wonderingly.
"You say I told you to hide your love from the man you have married. I take the words back. Better too much love than too little between husband and wife, for theirs is a union dependent on much affection and sacrifice if they would be happy. And God forbid that sorrow, disillusionment shall ever enter into your life. God forbid that you shall ever be lonely, stretch out a hand at night and find emptiness, pour out your troubles and find a deaf ear turned to you, offer a caress which is met with a curse."
Her voice was so low I could hardly catch the bitterness of her words.
"But can such things ever be?" I cried.
She laughed a little dry laugh.
"I have known of them. It would seem that some marriages were not made in heaven."
I thought of Peter and mother. Had Nanty's marriage been unhappy too? She had been alone ever since I could remember. The mistress of a handsome house, lovely garden...
Nanty broke in——
"And when you write your book, don't let it all be of Dimbie. Some women haven't got a Dimbie, and women are the principal readers of women's books. Enter as well all the little worries and cares which are bound to crop up sooner or later, so that the contrast between your life and the life of some lonely, unloved woman may not be too cruel. She will laugh at Amelia's smashing the best china, enjoy your misfortunes, cheer up when Dimbie is down with typhoid and not expected to live."