“You said I was old; you taunted me with it; you often taunt me,” she said indignantly.
“Well, but I knew it before we were married.”
“Yes, you knew it before we were married,” she repeated.
“Then I couldn’t have minded it so much, could I?” he said, with a softer tone in his voice, though it grated still.
“No, my love”—and she tried to smile, but it was a sad attempt.
“Well, is it all right?” he asked. “We won’t quarrel any more.”
“Yes, my love, it is all right,” she said lovingly, and, half doubtfully, she put up her face to his.
Involuntarily he drew back again, but he recovered in an instant and forced himself to stoop and kiss her forehead.
“There,” he said, “it’s all right. To-morrow you shall go to London, and we will be more sensible in future.” He touched her hand, and went out into the garden. When she had watched him out of sight, she sat down once more on the chair by the fire.
“I am old!” she cried; “I am old, I am old”—and, with a quick movement, as if she felt a horror of herself, she hid her thin hands out of sight. “I cannot bear it—I am old.”