It mattered little to her that people--her own cousins in particular--were looking upon her with cold and critical eyes; she knew, down in her heart, that she could throw a bomb among them at any time by the mere utterance of a single word.

It mattered as little that Edith was beginning to chafe miserably under the strain of waiting and deception; the novelty had worn off for the wife of Roxbury; she was despairingly in love, and she was pining for the day to come when she could laugh again with real instead of simulated joyousness.
"Connie, dear," she would lament a dozen times a day, "it's growing unbearable.

Oh, how I wish the three weeks were ended.

Then I could have my Roxbury, and you could have my other Roxbury, and everybody wouldn't be pitying me and cavilling at you because I'm unhappily married." "Why do you say I could have your other Roxbury ?" demanded her sister on one occasion.

"You forget that father expects me to marry the viscount.
I--" "You are so tiresome, Connie.