“What a position to leave you in—so young and so unprotected.”
She sat down on the sofa and shook her finger at me playfully.
“Admit, now, that you keep your journeys secret from him. For what man
would think of allowing a woman with such a wealth of hair to go
wandering in foreign countries? Now, supposing that you lost your purse
at midnight in a snowbound train in North Russia?”
“But I haven’t the slightest intention—” I began.
“I don’t say that you have. But when you said good-bye to your dear man
I am positive that you had no intention of coming here. My dear, I am a
woman of experience, and I know the world. While he is away you have a
fever in your blood. Your sad heart flies for comfort to these foreign
lands. At home you cannot bear the sight of that empty bed—it is like
widowhood. Since the death of my dear husband I have never known an
hour’s peace.”
“I like empty beds,” I protested sleepily, thumping the pillow.
“That cannot be true because it is not natural. Every wife ought to
feel that her place is by her husband’s side—sleeping or waking. It is
plain to see that the strongest tie of all does not yet bind you. Wait
until a little pair of hands stretches across the water—wait until he
comes into harbour and sees you with the child at your breast.”