But when he reminded her "It was here, to this very table, that I took you, on your birthday before last," she joined him in reminiscence.
"And I was miserable, envying every woman I saw, ashamed of my frock and my hands and my old shoes; ashamed of everything. I knew I couldn't compete."
"You could compete with any woman in the world." He cast a deprecating look around them.
"I couldn't then. There was a woman I specially envied, I remember, an actress whose name you knew. How long ago it seems."
"Only a year and a half," he replied quickly, plunging into a side issue.
"You admired her," she said curiously, "didn't you?"
He lied: "I don't remember."
"I do," she said. "I used to pray about you—that woman was in my mind when I prayed, and asked God to make you admire me for the children I'd borne, and not to let you see how old and ugly I should grow. Doesn't it seem funny?"
"It's not at all funny," he said, his eyes on the tablecloth. "I'm sorry you—if you'd told me—talked to me—"
"You'd have thought me more of a whining wife than ever."