“No—you never think of me now: I can easily believe that you were not thinking of me in the least.”
“But I said that only to prove to you that I could not be thinking ill of you, my dear.”
“But I would rather that you thought ill of me than that you did not think of me at all.”
“Well, my dear,” said her husband, laughing, “I will even think ill of you, if that will please you.”
“Do you laugh at me?” cried she, bursting into tears. “When it comes to this, I am wretched indeed! Never man laughed at the woman he loved! As long as you had the slightest remains of love for me, you could not make me an object of derision: ridicule and love are incompatible, absolutely incompatible. Well, I have done my best, my very best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Granby!”
“Happy I hope sincerely that she will be with my friend; but my happiness must depend on you, my love; so, for my sake, if not for your own, be composed, and do not torment yourself with such fancies.”
“I do wonder,” cried our heroine, starting from her seat, “whether this Mrs. Granby is really that Miss Emma Cooke. I’ll go and see her directly; see her I must.”
“I am heartily glad of it, my dear; for I am sure a visit to his wife will give my friend Granby real pleasure.”
“I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give him pleasure, or you either; but to satisfy my own—curiosity.”
The rudeness of this speech would have been intolerable to her husband if it had not been for a certain hesitation in the emphasis with which she pronounced the word curiosity, which left him in doubt as to her real motive.