She
had been attractive too, simply because she was young, healthy,
talkative, and forthcoming; goaded always by the hope of marriage, and
money, and escape from home. His wooing had been of the most despotical
and patronizing kind; not the kind that a proud girl would have put up
with. Still there had been wooing; a few presents; a frugal cheque for
the trousseau; and a honeymoon fortnight at Sorrento.
Why had he done it?--just for a whim?--or to spite his English family,
some member of which would occasionally turn up in Florence and try to
put in claims upon him--claims which infuriated him? He was the most
wilful and incalculable of men; caring nothing, apparently, one day for
position and conventionality, and boasting extravagantly of his family
and ancestors the next.
"He was rather fond of me--for a little," she thought to herself wearily,
as she stood at the hall window, looking out into the rain. At the point
which things had now reached she knew very well that she meant nothing at
all to him. He would not beat her, or starve her, or even, perhaps,
desert her. Such behaviour would disturb his existence as much as hers;
and he did not mean to be disturbed. She might go her own way--she and
the child; he would give her food and lodging and clothes, of a sort, so
long as she did not interfere with his tastes, or spend his money.
Then, suddenly, while she stood wrathfully pondering, a gust of anger
rose--childish anger, such as she had shown the night before, when she
had tried to get out of the carriage.
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