“Yes,” said Weever. “She died young. She came from a New England village, and played old-fashioned tunes on the piano, and believed in God.”
Not a flicker passed over his smooth waxen face or a gleam of sentiment appeared in his pale steady eyes. Norma glanced round at the little assembly, mainly composed of fleshy company promoters, who, as far as decency allowed, continued among themselves the conversation that had circulated over the wine downstairs, and their women-kind, who adopted the slangy manners of smart society and talked “bridge” to such men as would listen to them. Then she glanced back at Weever.
“I don't want any more wives of that sort,” he went on. “I've outgrown them. I have no use for them. They would wilt like a snow anemone in this kind of atmosphere.”
“Is it your favourite atmosphere, then?” Norma asked, by way of saying something.
“More or less. Perhaps I like it not quite so mephitic—You are racking your brains to know why I'm telling you about my wife. I'll explain. In a little churchyard in Connecticut is a coffin, and in that coffin is what a man who is going to ask a woman to marry him ought to give her. I could never give a quiet-eyed New England girl anything again. At my age she would bore me to death. But I could give the woman who is accustomed to hot-houses a perfectly regulated temperature.”
Norma looked at the imperturbable face, half touched by his unsuspected humanity, half angered by his assurance.
“Are you by any chance making me a formal demand in marriage?” she asked.
“I am.”
“And at last you have found some one who would meet your requirements for the decorative wife?”
“I found her last summer in Scotland,” replied Weever, with a little bow. “My countrymen have a habit of finding quickly what they want. They generally get it. I could n't in this particular instance, as you were engaged to another man.”