silkiness of her garments, her
dark-lashed, greyblue eyes--she was certainly as handsome at forty
as she had ever been. A fine possession, an excellent housekeeper, a
sensible and affectionate enough mother. If only she weren't always so
frankly cynical about the relations between them! Soames, who had no
more real affection for her than she had for him, suffered from a kind
of English grievance in that she had never dropped even the thinnest
veil of sentiment over their partnership. Like most of his countrymen
and women, he held the view that marriage should be based on mutual
love, but that when from a marriage love had disappeared, or, been found
never to have really existed--so that it was manifestly not based on
love--you must not admit it. There it was, and the love was not--but
there you were, and must continue to be! Thus you had it both ways, and
were not tarred with cynicism, realism, and immorality like the French.
Moreover, it was necessary in the interests of property. He knew that
she knew that they both knew there was no love between them, but he
still expected her not to admit in words or conduct such a thing, and he
could never understand what she meant when she talked of the hypocrisy
of the English. He said:

"Whom have you got at 'The Shelter' next week?"

Annette went on touching her lips delicately with salve--he always
wished she wouldn't do that.

"Your sister Winifred, and the Car-r-digans"--she took up a tiny stick
of black--"and Prosper Profond."

"That Belgian chap? Why him?"

Annette turned her neck lazily, touched one eyelash, and said:

"He amuses Winifred."

"I want some one to amuse Fleur; she's restive."

"R-restive?" repeated Annette. "Is it the first time you see that, my
friend? She was born r-restive, as you call it."

Would she never get that affected roll out of her r's?

He touched the dress she had taken off, and asked:

"What have you been doing?"

Annette looked at him, reflected in her glass. Her just-brightened lips
smiled, rather full, rather ironical.

"Enjoying myself," she said.

"Oh!" answered Soames glumly. "Ribbandry, I suppose."

It was his word for all that incomprehensible running in and out of
shops that women went in for. "Has Fleur got her summer dresses?"

"You don't ask if I have mine."

"You don't care whether I do or not."

"Quite right. Well, she has; and I have mine--terribly expensive."

"H'm!" said Soames. "What does that chap Pro