“Oh, you don’t know! Well,” he continued, looking at her, “perhaps you don’t know; and so much the better. Never mind about Markham. I should expect my wife to be with me when I am ill; not to leave me to servants, to give me my—everything I had to take; and to cheer me up, you know. Do you think there is anything unreasonable in that?”
“Oh no, indeed. Of course, if—if—she was fond of you—which of course she would be, or you would not want to marry her.”
“Yes,” said Claude. “Go on, please; I like to hear you talk.”
“I mean,” said Frances, stumbling a little, feeling a significance in this encouragement which disturbed her, “that, of course—there would be no question of reasonableness. She would just do it by nature. One never asks if it is reasonable or not.”
“Ah, you mean you wouldn’t. But other girls are different. There is Con, for instance.”
“Mr Ramsay, I don’t think you ought to speak to me so about my sister. Constance, if she were in such a position, would do—what was right.”
“For that matter, I suppose Nelly Winterbourn does what is right—at least, every one says she behaves so well. If that is what you mean by right, I shouldn’t relish it at all in my wife.”
Frances said nothing for a minute, and then she asked, “Are you going to be married, Mr Ramsay?” in a tone which was half indignant, half amused.
At this he started a little, and gave her an inquiring look. “That is a question that wants thinking of,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I am, if I can find any one as nice as that. You are always giving me renseignements, Miss Waring. If I can find some one who will, as you say, never ask whether it is reasonable——”
“Then,” said Frances, recovering something of the sprightliness which had distinguished her in old days, “you don’t want to marry any one in particular, but just a wife?”