She dropped her sewing, and stared at me.
“Aren't you pleased?” I asked. “At last we are going to have a house of our very own. What's the matter?”
“I can't bear the thought of leaving here. I'm so used to it. I've grown to love it. It's part of me.”
“But,” I exclaimed, a little exasperated, “you didn't expect to live here always, did you? The house has been too small for us for years. I thought you'd be delighted.” (This was not strictly true, for I had rather expected some such action on her part.) “Most women would. Of course, if it's going to make such a difference to you as that, I'll sell the lot. That won't be difficult.”
I got up, and started to go into my study. She half rose, and her sewing fell to the floor.
“Oh, why are we always having misunderstandings? Do sit down a minute, Hugh. Don't think I'm not appreciative,” she pleaded. “It was—such a shock.”
I sat down rather reluctantly.
“I can't express what I think,” she continued, rather breathlessly, “but sometimes I'm actually frightened, we're going through life so fast in these days, and it doesn't seem as if we were getting the real things out of it. I'm afraid of your success, and of all the money you're making.”
I smiled.
“I'm not so rich yet, as riches go in these days, that you need be alarmed,” I said.