“But I am your husband,” he said. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. It runs about gayly, it romps, it is bright and pretty, it has enormous quantities of soft hair and more power of expressing affection than its brothers. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them.
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