Perhaps it was loneliness. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. Women to me are something so serene, so fine, so feminine, and politics are so dusty, so sordid, so wearisome and quarrelsome. It frightened her to behold her heart and mind thus laid bare; but the chapter following would reassure her. I've bumped into so much of the underside that I can't see clean any more. It’s no good hiding it any more. Still, I suppose Melusine can always sell the house. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth.
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