A Mistress of Art
A Mistress of Art
"You're not going out again this evening, are you, George?" Pretty Mrs. Carson seemed on the point of dissolving in tears, but her liege lord buttoned his coat indifferently, and began the usual search for his hat. Having found it, he hesitated for a moment, then came and stood before her. "See here, Kitty," he began, not unkindly; "we might just as well understand this thing first as last. There's no use in your speaking to me in that tone just because I choose to go out in the evening. When I married you, I didn't expect to be tied to your apron string, and I don't intend to be. I consider myself as free as I was before I was married, and I am perfectly willing to accord the same freedom to you. When you go out, I never ask you where you've been, nor what time you came home, and I'd be glad to have you equally considerate of me. Let's be sensible, Kitty. I hate tears and heroics. See?" He stooped to kiss her, and then went off, whistling a jaunty air meant to indicate extreme cheerfulness.
For three evenings of that week Mr. George Carson had sought relaxation and entertainment away from his own fireside. This made the fourth, and the wife of only six months' standing, had a heavy and joyless heart.
Twice before she had spoken of it,—the first time to be answered by a laugh, the second time by very visible irritation, and to-night by the very cool "understanding" chronicled above.