I had got no further than 'My dearest husband,' and my pen-handle was a fringe.
'Another fine day,' I said, as if the old, old Indian joke could give him ease, poor man! 'Yes,' said he, 'we are having lovely weather.' He had forgotten that it was a joke.

Then he lapsed into silence while I renewed my attentions to my pen.
'I say,' he said at last, with so strained a look about his mouth that it was almost a contortion, 'I haven't done it, you know.' 'No,' I responded, cheerfully, 'and you're not going to.

Is that it?
Well!' 'Frankly--' said he.
'Dear me, yes! Anything else between you and me would be grotesque,' I interrupted, 'after all these years.' 'I don't think it would be a success,' he said, looking at me resolutely with his clear blue eyes, in which still lay, alas! the possibility of many delusions.
'No,' I said, 'I never did, you know.

But the prospect had begun to impose upon me.' 'To say how right you were would seem, under the circumstances, the most hateful form of flattery.' 'Yes,' I said, 'I think I can dispense with your verbal endorsement.' I felt a little bitter.

It was, of course, better that the connoisseur should have discovered the flaw before concluding the transaction; but although I had pointed it out myself I was not entirely pleased to have the article returned.
'I am infinitely ashamed that it should have taken me all these days--day after day and each contributory--to discover what you saw so easily and so completely.' 'You forget that I am her mother,' I could not resist the temptation of saying.
'Oh, for God's sake don't jeer! Please be absolutely direct, and tell me if you have reason to believe that to the extent of a thought, of a breath--to any extent at all--she cares.' He was, I could see, very deeply moved; he had not arrived at this point without trouble and disorder not lightly to be put on or off.