"Rubbish! You could play all right with practice!" He looked away from her out of the window where a radiant sunset was spreading rays of gorgeous coloring across the sea.
"Chris is the sort of man who likes a woman to be sporting," he said, after a moment, speaking rather carefully, as if choosing his words. "I mean to say that he is a man who would like his wife to be able to join him in his own sports! Do you understand?"
"Yes." Her eyes were fixed anxiously on his averted face, and then she asked suddenly: "And do you ever think I could be that sort of wife, Mr. Dakers?"
Feathers cleared his throat loudly.
"Do I! Of course, I do!" he said, but his voice sounded as If he were as anxious to convince himself as he was to convince her. "You're the sort of woman who could do anything if you set your mind to it."
She did not speak for a moment, then she said sadly, "It's kind of you to say so, but in your heart, you know it isn't true."
He swung round, his face red with distress. "What do you mean, Mrs. Lawless?"
"I mean that you know I couldn't ever be that sort of wife. I'm not made that way. Dorothy used to say that I should have been an ideal wife for a man in early Victorian days; that I was cut out to stay at home and make jams and bread and jangle keys on my chatelaine, 51 and tie up the linen in lavender bags, and look after the babies . . ." She broke off, laughing and flushing a little.
"And who is 'Dorothy,' may I ask?" Feathers demanded.
"She was my best friend at school, and she was ever such a sport! She could beat all the other girls at games, and she could ride horse-back, and—oh, lots of things like that!"