“My dear,” she said, “I like Léon so much.” Rose smiled and blushed and snuggled further into the rather hard second pillow reluctantly conceded to her by the Hotel le Roy.
“Yes, Mamma, I know,” she said, “and he loves you--isn’t it nice?”
Mrs. Pinsent reflected. “All the same,” she said, “men are very strange. I mean even our own men. You’d think you could tell what they’re like before you are married to them, but you can’t--you don’t even know for quite a long time afterwards.”
Rose looked unconcerned. “It’s so funny,” she said, “but I feel as if I knew Léon better than if he was an Englishman. You see, he tells me more. I can’t quite put it to you, so that you can understand, but I think it’s his being so much more expressive.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pinsent. “Only that isn’t what I mean, you know. I wasn’t thinking of what they said, any of them. I don’t think you can go by that; when they’re in love, they’ll say anything.”
Rose hesitated. “But, Mamma,” she said, “don’t men--don’t they ever stay in love?”
Mrs. Pinsent resorted hastily to the hairbrush. Almost all married women dislike this question.
“Of course, in a sense,” she admitted. “But when they get used to you they aren’t always very easy to hold.”
Rose sat up very straight and slim. “How do you mean--hold?” she asked quickly. Mrs. Pinsent brushed her hair well over her face. She hoped Rose wasn’t thinking about her father. It was an unnecessary fear, Rose wasn’t thinking about any one but Léon.
“Well,” Mrs. Pinsent explained, “I think there comes a time in almost all happy marriages when a man has almost too much of what he wants. He gets, if one isn’t very careful, and perhaps even if one is--a little--a little restive and bored. You see, men never have as much to amuse themselves with as women have--and that makes them take more interest in what they do like even if it isn’t good for them--and other women (whom they wouldn’t really care for a bit--if they saw enough of them) may make an appeal to them just because they’re not their wives. Of course, it mayn’t be at all like this with Léon, dear, only you’re going so far away from us--and he’s a Frenchman, and perhaps they don’t think of marriage quite as we do. I have never read Zola, of course, but I believe there is rather a difference in the point of view.” Mrs. Pinsent faltered--she felt through the cascade of her hair--Rose’s inflexible eyes.