One cannot make Fate feel small and mean.

It affords no relief to our harrowed feelings to cry out indignantly to Fate: "look here, what you have done.
Look at this sweet and well-proportioned lady, compelled to travel first- class, accompanied by an amount of luggage that must be a perpetual nightmare to her maid, from one fashionable European resort to another; forced to exist on a well-secured income of, apparently, five thousand a year, most of which has to go in clothes; beloved by only the best people in the play; talked about by everybody incessantly to the exclusion of everybody else--all the neighbours interested in her and in nobody else much; all the women envying her; all the men tumbling over one another after her--looks, in spite of all her worries, not a day older than twenty-three; and has discovered a dressmaker never yet known to have been an hour behind her promise! And all your fault, yours, Fate.

Will nothing move you to shame ?" She has a way of mislaying her Husband.
It brings no satisfaction with it, speaking out one's mind to Fate.

We want to see him before us, the thing of flesh and blood that has brought all this upon her.

Was it that early husband--or rather the gentleman she thought was her husband.