Anne nodded, very wisely; then, she began to laugh,
but this time at herself. “I am talking
quite like a book,” she said. “Really,
I had no idea I was so clever. But I have thought
of this before, Rudolph, and been sorry for those
poor women who—who haven’t found the
right sort of man to care for.”
“Yes.” Musgrave’s face was
alert. “You have been luckier than most,
Anne,” he said.
“Lucky!” she cried, and that queer little
thrill of happiness woke again in her rich voice.
“Ah, you don’t know how lucky I have been,
Rudolph! I have never cared for any one except—well,
yes, you, a great while ago—and Jack.
And you are both good men. Ah, Rudolph, it was
very dear and sweet and foolish, the way we loved
each other, but you don’t mind—very,
very much—do you, if I think Jack is the
best man in the world, and by far the best man in
the world for me? He is so good to me; he is
so good and kind and considerate to me, and, even after
all these years of matrimony, he is always the lover.
A woman appreciates that, Rudolph; she wants her husband
to be always her lover, just as Jack is, and never
to give in when she coaxes—because she only
coaxes when she knows she is in the wrong—and
never, never, to let her see him shaving himself.
If a husband observes these simple rules, Rudolph,
his wife will be a happy woman; and Jack does.
In consequence, every day I live I grow fonder of
him, and appreciate him more and more; he grows upon
me just as a taste for strong drink might. Without
him—without him—” Anne’s
voice died away; then she faced Musgrave, indignantly.
“Oh, Rudolph!” she cried, “how horrid
of you, how mean of you, to come here and suggest
the possibility of Jack’s dying or running away
from me, or doing anything dreadful like that!”
Colonel Musgrave was smiling, “I?” said
he, equably. “My dear madam! if you will
reconsider,—”
“No,” she conceded, after deliberation,
“it wasn’t exactly your fault. I
got started on the subject of Jack, and imagined all
sorts of horrible and impossible things. But
there is a sort of a something in the air to-night;
probably a storm is coming down the river. So
I feel very morbid and very foolish, Rudolph; but,
then, I am in love, you see. Isn’t it funny,
after all these years?” Anne asked with a smile;—“and
so you are not to be angry, Rudolph.”
“My dear,” he said, “I assure you,
the emotion you raise in me is very far from resembling
that of anger.” Musgrave rose and laughed.
“I fear, you know, we will create a scandal
if we sit here any longer. Let’s see what
the others are doing.”
That night, after his guests had retired, Colonel
Musgrave smoked a cigarette on the front porch of
Matocton. The moon, now in the zenith, was bright
and chill. After a while, Musgrave raised his
face toward it, and laughed.
“Isn’t it—isn’t it funny?”
he demanded, echoing Anne’s query ruefully.
