"Oh, how could you! ... I never dreamed that I should live to hear you speak to me in that way."
Over the melon, whose rough green quartered rind had delicate white raised traceries all over it, suggesting outline maps of countries in Fairyland, Franky curiously regarded his wife. He said:
"Why are you and all your friends so funky of—what's only a natural phe—what do you call it? ... What do men and women marry for, if it isn't to have—children? ... Perhaps you'll answer me?"
"What do people marry for?" Margot regarded him indignantly over the neglected pyramid of luscious, tempting strawberries, "To—to be happy together—to have a clinking time!" Her voice shook. "And this is to be a gorgeous season. Balls—balls! right on from now to the end of July—then from the autumn all through winter. Period Costume Balls, reviving the modes, music, and manners of Ancient Civilisations—Carthagenian, Assyrian, Babylonian, Gothic—got up and arranged by the Committees of the Cercle Moderne, here in Paris, and in London by the New Style Club.... Tony Guisseguignol and Paul Peigault and their set are busy designing the dresses and decorations—nothing like them will ever have been seen! And—Peigault says—Tango and the Maxixe are to be chucked to the little cabbages. A new dance is coming from São Paulo that will simply wipe them out.... And now—just when I was looking forward—when everything was to have been so splendid——"
The shaking voice choked upon a note of anguish. Franky had picked up the melon, quite unconsciously, and was balancing it. At this juncture he gripped the green globe with both hands, and said, summoning all his courage to meet the agonised appeal of Margot's tear-drenched eyes:
"Look here. This is—strict Bridge.... Do you loathe 'em—the kiddies—so horribly that the idea of having any is hateful to you? Or is it—not only the—the veto it puts on larking and kickabout and—the temporary disfigurement—you're afraid of—but the—the—the inevitable pain?" He glanced round cautiously and looked back again at his wife, saying in a low voice: "Nobody's listening.... Tell me frankly...." He waited an instant, and then said in an urgent whisper. "Answer me! ... For God's sake, tell the frozen truth, Margot!"
CHAPTER III
FAIR ROSAMOND'S CHOICE
The terrace under Nadier's roses—dotted with little tables covered with napery, silver, crystal, and china, surrounded with laughing, chattering feasters—the terrace was no longer a scene out of a comedy of the lighter side of Parisian life.... Tragedy, pale and awe-inspiring in her ink-black mantle and purple chiton, had stepped across the gravel in her gold-buckled leather buskins, to offer to the girlish bride—a piece of human porcelain, prinked in the height of the fashion, and lovely—with her wild-rose cheeks and little uptilted nose, her floss-silk hair and wide, dark, lustrous deer-eyes—Fair Rosamond's choice, the dagger or the bowl....
"Yes—yes.... It is the ugliness of the thing! ..." The little mouth was pulled awry as though it had sipped of verjuice. The tiny hands knotted themselves convulsively, and the colour fled in terror from her face. "The grotesque ugliness.... And the"—the last two words came as though a pang had wrung them from the pale lips—"the pain—the awful pain! And besides—my mother died when I was born!" Margot's voice was a fluttering, appealing whisper; her great eyes were dilated and wild with terror. "Perhaps that is why I am so deadly afraid"—she caught her breath—"but there are heaps, heaps, heaps of married women who fear—that—equally! And they arrange to escape it—I don't know how! ... For I knew—nothing—when I married you! ..." She lifted her great eyes to Franky's, and he realised that it had been so, actually. "I've been ashamed ever to confess that I was—ignorant about these things! ... I've talked a language—amongst other women—that I didn't understand! ..."