“And much you care if he is.”
“Oh, yes, I do. He sprawls when he fusses and knocks things over, and then, when I’ve soothed him, he always goes and does Sandow exercises and gets bigger. And he’s big enough as it is. I must keep him quiet.”
“But you can’t keep the other men quiet. With your face and your voice—”
“Oh, it isn’t the voice,” she said with contempt.
He looked at her rather sadly.
“Why will you put such an exaggerated value on your appearance? Why will you never allow that three-quarters at least of your attraction comes from something else?”
“What?”
“Your personality—your self.”
“My soul!” she said, suddenly putting on a farcically rapt and yearning expression and speaking in a hollow, hungry voice. “Are we in the prehistoric Eighties?”
“We are in the unchanging world.”