It is kind of him to burden himself with our unimportant
affairs."
The irony of his tone belied the suave correctitude of his words. I
detested him more and more. More and more did I realise that the dying
eumoirist is capable of petty human passions. My vanity was being
sacrified. Here was a woman passionately in love with me proposing
to throw herself into another man's arms--it made not a scrap of
difference, in the circumstances, that the man was her husband--and into
the arms of such a man! Having known me to decline--etcetera, etcetera!
How could she face it? And why was she doing it? To save herself from
me, or me from herself? She knew perfectly well that the little pain
inside would precious soon settle that question. Why was she doing it?
I should have thought that the first glance at the puffy reprobate would
have been enough to show her the folly of her idea. However, it was
comforting to learn that she had not surrendered at once.
"If I am to have the privilege, Monsieur," said I, "of acting as a
family council, perhaps you may forgive my hinting at some of the
conditions that doubtless are in Madame's mind.
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