C.-C. I am painfully aware that the husband in these cases is not a romantic object.
Elizabeth. She had the world at her feet. You were rich. She was a figure in society. And she gave up everything for love.
C.-C. [Dryly.] I’m beginning to suspect it wasn’t only for her sake and for Arnold’s that you asked her to come here.
Elizabeth. I seem to know her already. I think her face is a little sad, for a love like that doesn’t leave you gay, it leaves you grave, but I think her pale face is unlined. It’s like a child’s.
C.-C. My dear, how you let your imagination run away with you!
Elizabeth. I imagine her slight and frail.
C.-C. Frail, certainly.
Elizabeth. With beautiful thin hands and white hair. I’ve pictured her so often in that Renaissance Palace that they live in, with old Masters on the walls and lovely carved things all round, sitting in a black silk dress with old lace round her neck and old-fashioned diamonds. You see, I never knew my mother; she died when I was a baby. You can’t confide in aunts with huge families of their own. I want Arnold’s mother to be a mother to me. I’ve got so much to say to her.
C.-C. Are you happy with Arnold?
Elizabeth. Why shouldn’t I be?