CHAPTER XI
Lily Herbert as Lily Phillips had realised the importance of keeping her husband’s love, not his toleration. Mr. Phillips had been affectionate always, and she had tolerated him. She remembered it all; she had been so relieved and glad when he was away from her, his kisses nauseated her.
With Herbert life was joy, and, had she not firmly believed it could not last, real happiness would have been hers.
Their honeymoon had lasted for three weeks, three weeks of absolute happiness, tempered only by her husband’s reflections of sorrow for Launa—for he admired Launa. Lily did likewise, and she feared her, too. Lily wondered whether she was to be the one who cared most; in all marriages one cares more than the other. She had always felt a contempt for women who show they care while their husbands seem indifferent. She blamed them; they were no longer desirable to their husbands; they were within reach. Someone must lead, so she took it: fear lest he should change or grow tired lent terror to all her ideas and movements.
They were staying in Surrey. The house was small, with a garden which was a bower of roses, with beautiful lawns and large cedar trees. They lived out of doors. Mr. Herbert did not work, and she took to embroidery. He told her she looked absolutely lovely when she sewed.
She laughed.
“There is something syren-like about you,” he said. “You will never grow old; you could not become unattractive.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that all—is that all you are going to say to me, only thank you?”
“All,” she said.