Women are so confoundedly whimsical. They expect everything to give way to them."
"Oh dear, no!" said Gwendolen, letting out her scorn in a flute-like tone. "I never expect you to give way."
"Why should I?" said Grandcourt, with his inward voice, looking at her, and then choosing an orange—for they were at table.
She made up her mind to a length of yachting that she could not see beyond; but the next day, after a squall which had made her rather ill for the first time, he came down to her and said—
"There's been the devil's own work in the night. The skipper says we shall have to stay at Genoa for a week while things are set right."
"Do you mind that?" said Gwendolen, who lay looking very white amidst her white drapery.
"I should think so. Who wants to be broiling at Genoa?"
"It will be a change," said Gwendolen, made a little incautious by her languor.
"I don't want any change. Besides, the place is intolerable; and one can't move along the roads. I shall go out in a boat, as I used to do, and manage it myself. One can get rid of a few hours every day in that way, instead of stiving in a damnable hotel."
