Lucia, who was genuinely fond of him, did not answer that she was as old as her own grandmother, but said with a kind of enthusiasm, “Yes, isn’t it nice! I feel as though I should really get something done. Though—it’s rather hard, of course, starting in again, after so many years.”
“Of mere wife-hood, eh?” Mr. Fayerweather looked at her a bit wistfully from under his iron-grey brows. “By the way, I saw that husband of yours the other day. They tell me he’s a man to reckon with, now. I tell them—but you always get cross with me when I tell the truth about yourself.”
Lucia smiled at him. And he remembered she had always been a confoundedly pretty girl. “Dear Mr. Fayerweather, I’m never cross with you. I’m only unconvinced.”
“Oh! very well then” (they were waiting for her mother and dinner), “I’ll tell you: when people say to me what a splendid fellow Gwynne is, and how successful, I say yes, but who’s backing him? Mrs. Gwynne!”
“Backing him?” repeated Lucia slowly.
“Why, yes. Haven’t you always furnished the brains of the combination—the spark? My dear Lucia, we all know that delightful head of yours works in twenty directions a minute!”
Lucia looked at him curiously. “No. It works in only two.” And they kill each other, she started to add; but changed it to “I’m afraid neither has ever helped John.”
“Nonsense—non—sense! Why, Gwynne was nowhere until he got married; and since then—he’s simply soared! There’s no holding him down. Believe me, Lucia, I hear it from men who——”
“Oh, of course he’s done well. I—I’m tremendously proud of John’s success. But it’s his own success, Mr. Fayerweather,” Lucia said passionately. “I haven’t contributed to the length of an idea!” The suddenness with which it struck her, almost overwhelmed Lucia Gwynne.
“My dear,” said Ambrose, looking at her, “you—none of you—can tell what you contribute. You’re women, aren’t you?” He glanced through the door, at the stairs where her mother was coming down. “That’s one thing you can’t help or evade. And—you don’t know what you contribute.”