"You are, there can be no question about that," said Lady Margaret, bitterly.
Noël took his cigar out of his mouth, looked at her calmly for a moment, and said:
"Then why——"
"Why—Yes, I know what you are going to say, you have said it so frequently—why did I marry you?" she interrupted.
"You have guessed rightly, my dear; that was just what I was about to remark."
"I married you because I could not help myself."
"Oh, yes, you could. You might have refused, and I would have gone back to Canada—would gladly have done so."
"No, Noël," said his wife, rising and standing before him, a rather terrifying figure; "be at least truthful. You would not have given up the estate even though it was burdened with an incubus like me."
"Well, well, my dear," said Noël, yawning aggravatingly, "all that is over. As your poet says, 'Let the dead past bury its dead.'"
"Inexact in small things as well as great," said Lady Margaret, who had returned to her accounts. "Your poet, you mean, for your quotation is from Longfellow, and he lived nearer your country than mine."