Swinging round, she quoted: "'Even the best husband,' she said, 'will go on swelling himself up with vanity just because he's a man.

A sensible woman, Miss, lets him go on priding of himself, poor creature.

It sort of helps his dignity when the time comes for him to eat out of your hand, and makes him think he's doing you a favour.'" "When are you going to eat out of my hand, Willie ?" she asked.
"Haven't I been doing it for the past week ?" "Oh, they always do that before they're married--so Mrs.Marigold informed me.

I mean afterwards." "Don't you think, my dear," I interposed, "it depends on what your hands hold out for him to eat ?" Her eyes wavered a bit under mine.
"If he's good," she answered, "they'll be always full of nice things." She sat, flushed, happy, triumphant, her arms straight down, her knuckles resting on the leathern seat, her silver-brocaded, slender feet, clear of the floor, peeping close together beneath her white frock.
"And if he isn't good ?" "They'll be full of nasty medicine." She laughed and pivoted round and, after running over the keys of the piano for a second or two, began to play Gounod's "Death March of a Marionette." She played it remarkably well.

When she had ended, Connor walked from the hearth, where he had been standing, to her side.