She paused. I smiled.
“Now,” she continued, turning a fine, but scornful eye upon me, “I have never cared for any man in the world except my husband.”
I smiled again. Poor Hilary looked very uncomfortable. With an apologetic air he began to stammer1 something about Parish Councils. I was not to be diverted by any such maneuver2. It was impossible that he could really wish to talk on that subject.
“Would a person who had never eaten anything but beef make a boast of it?” I asked.
Hilary grinned covertly3. Mrs. Hilary pulled the lamp nearer, and took up her embroidery4.
“Do you always work the same pattern?” said I.
Hilary kicked me gently. Mrs. Hilary made no direct reply, but presently she began to talk.
“I was just about Phyllis’s age—(by the way, little Miss Phyllis was there)—when I first saw Hilary. You remember, Hilary? At Bournemouth?”
“Oh—er—was it Bournemouth?” said Hilary, with much carelessness.
“I was on the pier5,” pursued Mrs. Hilary. “I had a red frock on, I remember, and one of those big hats they wore that year. Hilary wore—”
“Blue serge,” I interpolated, encouragingly.
“Yes, blue serge,” said she fondly. “He had been yachting, and he was beautifully burnt. I was horribly burnt—wasn’t I, Hilary?”
Hilary began to pat the dog.
“Then we got to know one another.”
“Stop a minute,” said I. “How did that happen?” Mrs. Hilary blushed.
“Well, we were both always on the pier,” she explained. “And—and somehow Hilary got to know father, and—and father introduced him to me.”
“I’m glad it was no worse,” said I. I was considering Miss Phyllis, who sat listening, open-eyed.
“And then you know, father wasn’t always there; and once or twice we met on the cliff. Do you remember that morning, Hilary?”
“What morning?” asked Hilary, patting the dog with immense assiduity.
“Why, the morning I had my white serge on. I’d been bathing, and my hair was down to dry, and you said I looked like a mermaid6.”
“Do mermaids7 wear white serge?” I asked; but nobody took the least notice of me—quite properly.
“And you told me such a lot about yourself; and then we found we were late for lunch.”
“Yes,” said Hilary, suddenly forgetting the dog, “and your mother gave me an awful glance.”
“Yes, and then you told me that you were very poor, but that you couldn’t help it; and you said you supposed I couldn’t possibly—”
“Well, I didn’t think—!”
“And I said you were a silly old thing; and then—” Mrs. Hilary stopped abruptly8.
“How lovely,” remarked little Miss Phyllis in a wistful voice.
“And do you remember,” pursued Mrs. Hilary, laying down her embroidery and clasping her hands on her knees, “the morning you went to see father?”
“What a row there was!” said Hilary.
“And what an awful week it was after that! I was never so miserable9 in all my life. I cried till my eyes were quite red, and then I bathed them for an hour, and then I went to the pier, and you were there—and I mightn’t speak to you!”
“I remember,” said Hilary, nodding gently.
“And then, Hilary, father sent for me and told me it was no use; and I said I’d never marry any one else. And father said, ‘There, there, don’t cry. We’ll see what mother says.’”
“Your mother was a brick,” said Hilary, poking10 the fire.
“And that night they never told me anything about it, and I didn’t even change my frock, but came down, looking horrible, just as I was, in an old black rag—no, Hilary, don’t say it was pretty!”
Hilary, unconvinced, shook his head.
“And when I walked into the drawing room there was nobody there but just you; and we neither of us said anything for ever so long. And then father and mother came in and—do you remember after dinner, Hilary?”
“I remember,” said Hilary.
There was a long pause. Mrs. Hilary was looking into the fire; little Miss Phyllis’s eyes were fixed11, in rapt gaze, on the ceiling; Hilary was looking at his wife—I, thinking it safest, was regarding my own boots.
At last Miss Phyllis broke the silence.
“How
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