"
Undine, as she grew older, had developed her mother's craving for a
confidante, and Madame de Trezac had succeeded in that capacity to Mabel
Lipscomb and Bertha Shallum.
"Less fussy?" Madame de Trezac's long nose lengthened thoughtfully.
"H'm--are you sure that's a good sign?"
Undine stared and laughed. "Oh, my dear, you're so quaint! Why, nobody's
jealous any more."
"No; that's the worst of it." Madame de Trezac pondered. "It's a
thousand pities you haven't got a son."
"Yes; I wish we had." Undine stood up, impatient to end the
conversation. Since she had learned that her continued childlessness
was regarded by every one about her as not only unfortunate but somehow
vaguely derogatory to her, she had genuinely begun to regret it; and any
allusion to the subject disturbed her.
"Especially," Madame de Trezac continued, "as Hubert's wife--"
"Oh, if THAT'S all they want, it's a pity Raymond didn't marry Hubert's
wife," Undine flung back; and on the stairs she murmured to herself:
"Nettie has been talking to my mother-in-law."
But this explanation did not quiet her, and that evening, as she and
Raymond drove back together from a party, she felt a sudden impulse to
speak. Sitting close to him in the darkness of the carriage, it ought to
have been easy for her to find the needed word; but the barrier of his
indifference hung between them, and street after street slipped by,
and the spangled blackness of the river unrolled itself beneath their
wheels, before she leaned over to touch his hand.
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