“We agree there for once,” replied Thornton drily.
“Tell me all about it. Can't you see I am dying to know? That is why I brought you out here. Who is she? Where did you meet her? Were you long engaged? And I know you too are dying to talk to someone about her. You may as well gratify the craving while you still have it.”
“I believe you are madly jealous, Clara. Pardon my frankness. But you and I always went in for being frank with one another.”
“Call it amiable brutality—it would be better.”
“As you like. I never went in for splitting hairs. I suppose it's brutal to say you are jealous.”
“It is simply idiotic. Therefore I bear you no ill will for your saying so. I honestly admire your wife, and think you have got very much more than you deserve, and I am femininely curious. Now perhaps you will tell me.”
“Well, I met her at a cousin's house. She is, or rather was, an artist.”
“I appreciate the distinction. Proceed.”
Thornton threw himself back with a great laugh against the balustrade, his elbows resting upon it, his hands in his pockets.
“I think you are just a little bit jealous,” he said. “Well—to finish my story. She is of an old Buckinghamshire family, and we were engaged about a month. And then we were married. But tell me, by way of changing the conversation——”