“Did you see any such man about?”
I contrived to compose myself for a calm reply. “No one answering to
your description,” said I.
“Do you like her?”
“You asked me that once before,” said I.
“Oh--I forgot. It seems to me you and she would have exactly suited
each other. You like domestic women. That is, you think you do. Really,
you’d probably fly from a woman of that sort.”
“And a woman of the other sort would fly from me,” said I, laughing.
She looked at me thoughtfully. “You must admit you’re not easy to get
on with--except at a distance,” observed she. “But men of positive
individuality are never easy to get on with. A big tree blights all the
little trees and bushes that try to grow in its neighborhood.... No,
Godfrey dear, you weren’t made for domestic life--you and I. Domestic
life is successful only where there are two very small and very much
alike. People like us have to live alone.”
I rose abruptly. There was for me a sound in that “alone” like the slam
of a graveyard gate.
“You never will appreciate me--how satisfactory I’ve been,” she went
on, “until you marry again.”
“I must make my final arrangements for Russia,” said I.
“Shall I see you in the morning? I’m leaving rather early.”
“Probably not,” said I.
“Then we’ll meet when you come back. We’ll visit Margot at Sothewell
Abbey.” She rose, drew herself to her full height with a graceful
gesture of triumph. “Don’t you honestly rather like it, being the
father of a Marchioness?”