"I suppose I married him for the same reason as you married your chap,
kid. I suppose I was took with him, once."
Marcella gathered her plates and teapot on the tray and stood at the
door for an instant, visioning last night's glamour ending in loathing,
or in dull acceptance of misery and disappointment.
"I do feel sorry, Mrs. King," she said, her eyes damp.
"I'm sorrier for you, kid," said Mrs. King, attacking the shirt again.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"And I'm nearly forty-nine. I've got through thirty years of my misery,
and you've all yours to come. I've learnt not to care. I go and have a
bit of a splash at the Races when I'm pretty flush with money, and I
have a glass or two of port with the boys sometimes, and get a laugh out
of it. You've got to learn these things yet, poor little devil. But
don't you make the mistake I made and be too soft with him."
Marcella shook her head.
"And--I say, kid. I go down on my bended knees every day and thank God
I've got no kids of his--"
"I think it's a pity. You must be so cold and lonely," she said, seeing
a resemblance between Mrs. King and Aunt Janet.
She had made the bed before she went down to cook the breakfast. Louis
was reading the paper and smoking, looking very well. She hated to see
him in bed now.
He ate his breakfast in silence, with the paper propped in front of him.
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