“My darling child, what on earth is the matter with you?”
Olivia started at the voice, as though awakening from a dream.
“I think it’s horrible,” she cried.
“What?”
“Marrying a man you can no more love than—— Ugh! I wouldn’t marry him for thousands of millions.”
“Why? I want to know.”
But the shiver in the girl’s soul could not be expressed in words.
“It’s a question of love,” she said lamely.
Lydia laughed, called her a romantic child. It was not a question of love, but of compatible temperament. Marriage wasn’t a week-end, but a life-end, trip. People had to get accustomed to each other in dressing-gowns and undress manners. She herself was sure that Sydney Rooke would wear the most Jermyn Street of dressing-gowns, at any rate. But the manners?
“They’ll always be as polished as his finger-nails,” said Olivia.