He
thought no end of Dante and Shelley. As a matter of fact, he didn't
believe in marriage, as a game--as a kind of institution, you know. He
thought it devilish wrong--and said so--and that's where the trouble was.
Marry Sancie! I wish to heaven he had. There'd have been no trouble at
all. They were made for each other. She loved his fun--and was easy with
him, you see. She was queerish, too--a shy young bird; but she was quite
at home with him. No, no. The trouble really began with him putting her
out of conceit with marriage. And then she didn't care for him in that
sort of way, then. And then--well, the less said the better."
"Oh," said Mrs. Germain, absorbed by the devolutions of the tale. "Oh!"
"'Oh's the sort of expression one used at the time," said Chevenix.
"There wasn't much else to be said. It was a holy row." He mused, he
brooded, and said no more. Luckily for him, he discovered Dover at hand,
and escaped. Mrs. Germain was put into a first-class carriage by two
attendant squires, provided with tea and a foot-warmer; and then Chevenix
bowed himself away and Senhouse disappeared. She had a novel on her knees,
but read little. She looked out of window, frowning and biting her red
lip.
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