“Well, if what you say is true,” said Mrs. MacAndrew at last, “things aren’t so bad as I thought.”
Mrs. Strickland glanced at her, but said nothing.
She was very pale now, and her fine brow was dark and lowering. I could not understand the expression of her face. Mrs. MacAndrew continued:
“If it’s just a whim, he’ll get over it.”
“Why don’t you go over to him, Amy?” hazarded the Colonel. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t live with him in Paris for a year. We’ll look after the children. I dare say he’d got stale. Sooner or later he’ll be quite ready to come back to London, and no great harm will have been done.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Mrs. MacAndrew. “I’d give him all the rope he wants. He’ll come back with his tail between his legs and settle down again quite comfortably.” Mrs. MacAndrew looked at her sister coolly. “Perhaps you weren’t very wise with him sometimes. Men are queer creatures, and one has to know how to manage them.”
Mrs. MacAndrew shared the common opinion of her sex that a man is always a brute to leave a woman who is attached to him, but that a woman is much to blame if he does. Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait pas.
Mrs. Strickland looked slowly from one to another of us.
“He’ll never come back,” she said.
“Oh, my dear, remember what we’ve just heard. He’s been used to comfort and to having someone to look after him. How long do you think it’ll be before he gets tired of a scrubby room in a scrubby hotel? Besides, he hasn’t any money. He must come back.”