"It is kind of you to ask me, but I am not very good company, you know—I am not an amusing chap like Chris."
She did not answer, though she could truthfully have said that he had done more to pass the dreary hours of the last three weeks than ever Chris had attempted to do.
"I heard from young Atkins this morning," Feathers said presently. "He asked very anxiously after you; he is a nice boy."
"Yes, I liked him; he has written to me once or twice."
"Really! What does Chris say to that?"
If the question was asked deliberately it was entirely successful, for Marie gave a scornful little laugh as she answered: "Oh, he doesn't know," and once again Feathers echoed her words blankly.
"Doesn't know, Mrs. Lawless!"
"No! Oh, I hope you are not one of those old-fashioned people who think husband and wife should have no secrets from one another," she broke out with shrill nervousness. "Chris and I are going to be 89 entirely modern—we agreed that from the first; each to go our own way, and no questions asked."
There was a profound silence, then Feathers said rather painfully:
"That is different from what you told me that morning on the sands, and again after your accident—you said you were sure that you could never be a modern wife, that your friend had told you you ought to have lived in early Victorian days."