"I'm not so sure. I'm tired out with it. I give her up."
"No, you don't, dear, any more than I do."
"But what can I do? Is it, honestly, Edie, is it in any way my fault?"
"Well—I think, perhaps, if you'd approached her in another spirit at the first—she told me that what shocked her more than anything that night at Scarby, was, darling, your appalling flippancy. You know, if you'd taken that tone when you first spoke to me about it, I think it would have killed me. And she's your wife, not your sister. It's worse for her. Think of the shock it must have been to her."
"Think of the shock it was to me. She sprang the whole thing on me at four o'clock in the morning—before I was awake. What could I do? Besides, she got over all that in the summer. And now she goes back to it worse than ever, though I haven't done anything in between."
"It was all brought back to her in the autumn, remember."
"Granted that, it's inconceivable how she can keep it up. It isn't as if she was a hard woman."
"No. She's softer than any woman I know, in some ways. But she happens to be made so that that is the one thing she finds it hardest to forgive. Besides, think of her health."
"I wonder if that really accounts for it."
"I think it may."