“Oh!” The blood mounted into Cassandra’s cheeks, she felt a sudden unaccountable shyness. “Marriage! The relationship of husband and wives—that sort of thing.”
Peignton laughed: a breezy laugh without a touch of self-consciousness.
“Naturally! I might have known it. What else could you expect? She is a bride, and head over heels in love,—must have been, to give up all she did—naturally she’d want to prattle to another woman. Boring for you, though, as you know so much more of the game.”
Cassandra looked at him thoughtfully. The electric light overhead showed the small oval face, with the rose flush on the cheek, the soft greys of the furs round her throat. The words came slowly.
“Do you know—it’s a strange thing to confess,—but I don’t! She is a bride of two months, and I’ve been married ten years—but she realises things now, that I’ve passed by. She sees deeper into the difficulties. She feels more, not less.”
“You are too modest,” Dane said quickly, his brown eyes softening in involuntary admiration of the beautiful sad face. “Nothing is easier than to talk big, before the event. We can all theorise, and lay down the law; the tug comes when we begin to act. Mrs Beverley is living in Utopia at present, and talks the language thereof. Very exalted and charming, no doubt, but—it isn’t real! You should not take her too seriously.”
Cassandra did not reply. It was not for her to betray another woman’s confidence, and for the moment she was occupied with the side-light which Peignton’s words had given her concerning his own sentiments.—Grizel Beverley believed in the reality of her Utopia, and intended to preserve it at the point of the sword; Peignton proclaimed it a delusion before he had even come into possession. Such an attitude was not natural, was not right. He was not temperamentally a cold-blooded man, the latent strength of his nature made itself felt, despite the indifference of his pose, and Teresa was young and pretty and fresh. Once more the older woman felt a stirring of pity for the younger. It was as the champion of Teresa’s youth that she spoke at last.
“You seem to have no illusions! Isn’t it rather a pity, at your...”
“Stage of the game?” He finished the sentence for her with unruffled composure. “I think not, Lady Cassandra. To expect too much, is to invite disappointment. I’m not very young, and my experience has shown me that for most people, life resolves itself into making the most of a second best. Things don’t turn out as they expect. They set out to gain a certain prize, and they don’t gain it, or if they do, something unexpected creeps in to rub off the bloom. Don’t think I’m morbid. I’m not; I’ve no reason to be. There’s a lot of good, steady-going happiness open to all of us, if we are sensible enough to take it, and not lose our chance by expecting too much.”
“You are very philosophical. Generally speaking, I suppose you are right, but we were talking of marriage, when even the most matter-of-fact people are supposed to have illusions. There are not many girls who would accept a lover who did not believe, for the time, at least, that he would be happy ever after if he could secure her as a companion.”