The Second Mrs. Tanqueray, Arthur W. Pinero [best books to read for women .txt] 📗

the first place, I forgot to order any dinner, and my cook, who has always loathed me, thought he’d pay me out before he departed. Aubrey The beast! Paula That’s precisely what I⁠— Aubrey No, Paula! Paula What I told my maid to call him. What next will you think of me? Aubrey Forgive me. You must be starved. Paula Eating fruit. I didn’t care. As there was nothing to eat, I sat in my best frock, with my toes on the dining-room fender, and dreamt, oh, such a lovely dinner-party. Aubrey Dear lonely little woman! Paula It was perfect. I saw you at the end of a very long table, opposite me, and we exchanged sly glances now and again over the flowers. We were host and hostess, Aubrey, and had been married about five years. Aubrey Kissing her hand. Five years. Paula And on each side of us was the nicest set imaginable⁠—you know, dearest, the sort of men and women that can’t be imitated. Aubrey Yes, yes. Eat some more fruit. Paula But I haven’t told you the best part of my dream. Aubrey Tell me. Paula Well, although we had been married only such a few years, I seemed to know by the look on their faces that none of our guests had ever heard anything⁠—anything⁠—anything peculiar about the fascinating hostess. Aubrey That’s just how it will be, Paula. The world moves so quickly. That’s just how it will be. Paula With a little grimace. I wonder! Glancing at the fire. Ugh! do throw another log on. Aubrey Mending the fire. There. But you mustn’t be here long. Paula Hospitable wretch! I’ve something important to tell you. No, stay where you are. Turning from him, her face averted. Look here, that was my dream, Aubrey; but the fire went out while I was dozing, and I woke up with a regular fit of the shivers. And the result of it all was that I ran upstairs and scribbled you a letter. Aubrey Dear baby! Paula Remain where you are. Taking a letter from her pocket. This is it. I’ve given you an account of myself, furnished you with a list of my adventures since I⁠—you know. Weighing the letter in her hand. I wonder if it would go for a penny. Most of it you’re acquainted with; I’ve told you a good deal, haven’t I? Aubrey Oh, Paula! Paula What I haven’t told you I daresay you’ve heard from others. But in case they’ve omitted anything⁠—the dears⁠—it’s all here. Aubrey In Heaven’s name, why must you talk like this tonight? Paula It may save discussion by-and-by, don’t you think? Holding out the letter. There you are. Aubrey No, dear, no. Paula Take it. He takes the letter. Read it through after I’ve gone, and then⁠—read it again, and turn the matter over in your mind finally. And if, even at the very last moment, you feel you⁠—oughtn’t to go to church with me, send a messenger to Pont Street, any time before eleven tomorrow, telling me that you’re afraid, and I⁠—I’ll take the blow. Aubrey Why, what⁠—what do you think I am? Paula That’s it. It’s because I know you’re such a dear good fellow that I want to save you the chance of ever feeling sorry you married me. I really love you so much, Aubrey, that to save you that I’d rather you treated me as⁠—as the others have done. Aubrey Turning from her with a cry. Oh! Paula After a slight pause. I suppose I’ve shocked you. I can’t help it if I have. She sits, with assumed languor and indifference. He turns to her, advances, and kneels by her. Aubrey My dearest, you don’t understand me. I⁠—I can’t bear to hear you always talking about⁠—what’s done with. I tell you I’ll never remember it; Paula, can’t you dismiss it? Try. Darling, if we promise each other to forget, to forget, we’re bound to be happy. After all, it’s a mechanical matter; the moment a wretched thought enters your head, you quickly think of something bright⁠—it depends on one’s will. Shall I burn this, dear? Referring to the letter he holds in his hand. Let me, let me! Paula With a shrug of the shoulders. I don’t suppose there’s much that’s new to you in it⁠—just as you like. He goes to the fire and burns the letter. Aubrey There’s an end of it. Returning to her. What’s the matter? Paula Rising, coldly. Oh, nothing! I’ll go and put my cloak on. Aubrey Detaining her. What is the matter? Paula Well, I think you might have said, “You’re very generous, Paula,” or at least, “Thank you, dear,” when I offered to set you free. Aubrey Catching her in his arms. Ah! Paula Ah! ah! Ha, ha! It’s all very well, but you don’t know what it cost me to make such an offer. I do so want to be married. Aubrey But you never imagined⁠—? Paula Perhaps not. And yet I did think of what I’d do at the end of our acquaintance if you had preferred to behave like the rest. Taking a flower from her bodice. Aubrey Hush! Paula Oh, I forgot! Aubrey What would you have done when we parted? Paula Why, killed myself. Aubrey Paula, dear! Paula It’s true. Putting the flower in his buttonhole. Do you know I feel certain I should make away with myself if anything serious happened to me. Aubrey Anything serious! What, has nothing ever been serious to you, Paula? Paula Not lately; not since a long while ago. I made up my mind then to have done with taking things seriously. If I hadn’t, I⁠—However, we won’t talk about that. Aubrey But now, now, life will be different to you, won’t it⁠—quite different? Eh, dear? Paula Oh yes, now. Only, Aubrey, mind you keep me always happy. Aubrey I will try to. Paula I know I couldn’t swallow a second big dose of misery. I know that if ever I felt wretched again⁠—truly wretched⁠—I should take a leaf out of Connie Tirlemont’s book. You remember? They found her⁠—With a look of horror. Aubrey For God’s sake,