Not to her—dear, no! he had too much tact, knowledge of the world, for that, he hoped; but to her father. They had been "pals"; he was so much older than she, "quite fatherly," he used to say, delighting in her conscious look. . . . . So it was natural, quite natural, for him to write and tell him how it had happened.
For in some ways it was a queer business, not quite what had been expected of him, and yet—what every one had expected. That he knew, and it galled him sorely. It was hardly a mésalliance, but—a mistake? He felt that it might be called one; a horrid saying jingled in his ears, "There's no fool like an old fool"—and yet he had chosen it so, always guessed that it would end so. Romantic? No! There was the sting—not even romantic.
But she? Would she look at it in that way? Would she smile and think that he had made a mess of it, compare herself mentally—her fastidious high-bred self—with his bride and—pity him? He moved restlessly. No, she wouldn't; he knew her better, She would mind—mind horribly. Her mouth would set itself, her eyes would look bright and pained—oh! she was brave enough; but she would be silent, sadder than her wont, and—envious? His smile grew broader. Poor little dear!
Well, his letter would be some comfort. He had finished it; now to read it over. . . . . Yes! all was admirably conveyed, the regret, the remembrance, the veiled messages to her, the (he rather liked this part)—the hinted depreciation of his choice, the insinuated unhappiness and foreboding—and then the allusion to "his wife" . . . . in fancy he heard the sharp quick breath, saw the darkening of the blue eyes, the pain of the firm little mouth. . . . . But perhaps she might not read it at all; men didn't hand letters round. He must provide for that. It was written for her, she must see it. How should he manage? Ah! that was it!
