The polish of her
dressing-table reflected the light: the mirror had as yet none of
those ugly stains which are made by the splashing of water. The silver
on the back of her hair-brush, her powder-box, her tooth-brush, all
shone and sparkled. Her bedroom slippers were still so new and pretty
that it was impossible to picture them down-at-heel. Everything looked
new, and yet everything seemed to have lost some of its freshness. She
knew all his songs, all his drawing-room pieces, all his words, all
his thoughts. She knew before-hand what he would say when he sat down
to lunch, what he would talk about when they were alone in the
evening.
She was sick of it all. Had she been in love with him? Oh, yes!
Certainly! But was this all then? Was she realising all the dreams of
her girlhood? Were things to go on like this until she died? Yes!
But--but--but--surely they would have children! though there was no
sign of it as yet. Then she would no longer be alone! Then he might go
out as often as he liked, for she would always have somebody to talk
to, to play with. Perhaps it was a baby which she wanted to make her
happy. Perhaps matrimony really meant something more than being a
man's legitimate mistress. That must be it! But then, he would have to
love her, and he didn't do that.
Pages:
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127