“Yes.”
“Give her my love, and tell her God’s been very nice. I heard Him promise inside me.”
“That’s very sensible of God.”
Lynette vanished, and Canterton looked across the breakfast-table at his wife, who was submerged beneath the usual flood of letters. She had not been listening—had not heard what Lynette had said. A local anti-suffrage campaign was the passion of the moment.
It struck Canterton suddenly, perhaps for the first time in his life, that his wife was a happy woman, thoroughly contented with her discontent. All this fussy altruism, this tumult of affairs, gave her the opportunity of full self-expression. Even her grievances were harmonious, chiming in with her passion for restless activity. Her egoism was utterly lacking in self-criticism. If a kettle can be imagined as enjoying itself when it is boiling over, Gertrude Canterton’s happiness can be understood.
“Gertrude, I want to have a talk with you.”
“What, James?”
“I want to have a talk with you.”
She dropped a type-written letter on to her plate, and looked at him with her pale eyes.
“What is it?”