“I say—that sounds all right for you! You always wanted to be independent.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?’”
“I only knew last week.”
“But I heard a month ago,” he said.
“Yes; but nothing was settled then.”
“I should have thought,” he said, “you’d have told me you were trying.”
She ate her food in the deliberate, constrained way, almost as if she recoiled a little from doing anything so publicly, that he knew so well.
“I suppose you’re glad,” he said.
“Very glad.”
“Yes—it will be something.”
He was rather disappointed.
“I think it will be a great deal,” she said, almost haughtily, resentfully.
He laughed shortly.
“Why do you think it won’t?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t think it won’t be a great deal. Only you’ll find earning your own living isn’t everything.”
“No,” she said, swallowing with difficulty; “I don’t suppose it is.”
“I suppose work can be nearly everything to a man,” he said, “though it isn’t to me. But a woman only works with a part of herself. The real and vital part is covered up.”
“But a man can give all himself to a work?” she asked.
“Yes, practically.”
“And a woman only the unimportant part of herself?”
“That’s it.”
She looked up at him, and her eyes dilated with anger.
“Then,” she said, “if it’s true, it’s a great shame.”
“It is. But I don’t know everything,” he answered.
After supper they drew up to the fire. He swung her a chair facing him, and they sat down. She was wearing a dress of dark claret colour, that suited her dark complexion and her large features. Still, the curls were fine and free, but her face was much older, the brown throat much thinner. She seemed old to him, older than Clara. Her bloom of youth had quickly gone. A sort of stiffness, almost of woodenness, had come upon her. She meditated a little while, then looked at him.
“And how are things with you?” she asked.
