“Where’s Germain?” He spoke masterfully.
Her reply was studiously simple. “He’ll come for me by-and-by. He’s at the Speaker’s dinner.”
“He’s always somewhere else.” Mischief prompted her to ask if he complained of that; but he was not to be drawn.
“If you were my wife,” he told her, “I should never leave your side. If you were my wife, I should be your lover always.”
Here was a lie, obvious even to her; but the devout imagination in it was enough to thrill her. Watching her closely, he saw that she was thrilled.
“You’re not happy,” he said, “and I’m not happy. You made a frightful mistake—but mine was worse.”
It was hardly the moment to assure him that he was quite wrong. If a gentleman does you the honour to discern misery, even where none exists, it proves attention, at least, to your circumstances. It’s an oblique compliment.
She said gravely, “I don’t think we ought to talk about such things. I have never given you any reason to think me dissatisfied with——”
“Oh,” he broke in, “we’re not considering the creature comforts, I imagine. You came here in a carriage from your big house—and you’ll go back to a big house in your carriage. I can understand that these are pleasant arrangements; and after two years of them, for what they are worth, you may well confuse them with the real thing. But that—! A full cup, nodding at the brim! Life together! No world, nobody in the world but two souls—ours! And work: work together! Good God, it’s ghastly to think of.”
He looked haggard, and there was a hollow ring in his voice, the hoarseness of a consumptive. Her heart went out to him in pity, and her hand was laid for a moment on his sleeve. “You are not well—you work too hard. Please don’t.”