“Why didn't you say something about this before?” he asked.
“Because I didn't know it—I didn't realize it—until now.”
“When you married me,” he went on, “you had an idea that you were going to live in a house on Fifth Avenue with a ballroom, didn't you?”
“Yes,” said Honora. “I do not say I am not to blame. I was a fool. My standards were false. In spite of the fact that my aunt and uncle are the most unworldly people that ever lived—perhaps because of it—I knew nothing of the values of life. I have but one thing to say in my defence. I thought I loved you, and that you could give me—what every woman needs.”
“You were never satisfied from the first,” he retorted. “You wanted money and position—a mania with American women. I've made a success that few men of my age can duplicate. And even now you are not satisfied when I come back to tell you that I have money enough to snap my fingers at half these people you know.”
“How,” asked Honora, “how did you make it?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
She turned away from him with a gesture of weariness.
“No, you wouldn't understand that, either, Howard.”
It was not until then that he showed feeling.