‘It is so nice having Isabel with us—yes?’ she said, apologizing both to himself and her.
Her husband had long since ceased to criticize Isabel; now he warmed honestly to her praise.
‘She is splendid company,’ he replied. ‘Always full of interesting things to say. Don’t you think she is very amusing, Gundred?’
‘Oh yes,’ answered Gundred with pathetic insincerity. ‘So bright and witty and facetious. I often wish I could say all the clever things she does. I am afraid I am much slower than she is, though. My brain does not run along so readily. I am fonder of serious things.’
Her voice was touched with a faint wistfulness. Kingston hardly noticed it. He saw an opportunity for a show of that ardour which she found so unsatisfactory, and which he believed that she found so satisfying.
‘She is one person, and you are another,’ he replied. ‘I would not have you different, little lady, for anything in the world.’
This was pleasant and pretty. Gundred’s instincts found it blankly empty and chilling. He meant to be so warm, but a month ago such an advance as hers would have been very differently met. Then he had thought her cold, had been for ever calling upon her to thaw. Now he hardly appeared to notice whether she was warm or cold, despite his manifestations of enthusiasm. Now it was he that was frozen, and she might thaw, it seemed, in vain. Had her melting come too late?
‘Wouldn’t you?’ she answered slowly. ‘Are you really sure you wouldn’t? Kingston,’ she went on in a low voice, ‘I do so want to do and say what you like.’ She hesitated and broke off, seeking piteously for words that should salve her pride in its downfall.
He could not understand that her seriousness demanded the tribute of a serious answer in return. He gave her another of those easy protestations which sounded so well, and yet, as she felt, meant so little.
‘You always do,’ he replied, ‘always and always. You can’t tell how much pleasure you give us, Gundred.’