"That was wrong," said Grace; "there is Godfrey and little Elizabeth—"
"Where?" said George, springing to his feet.
"—to be considered," said Grace.
"Confound little Elizabeth!"
"How can you? And I'm her mother."
"But Godfrey is her father," said George. "I have to take that into account. Why on earth did you marry him?"
"Don't be cruel to me, George. I—I didn't know any better." George could not help thinking how very unpleasant she would seem, if he didn't happen to be in love with her. As it was, an indefinable fear began to creep over him. He wished he had never seen her; and kissed her again. This reassured him to a certain extent. It was absurd to be afraid of a woman he could kiss—and so easily.
"I should never consider the child before you," said Grace—"you are first. I would not like to take her away from Godfrey; he's so fond of her."
"Take her away!" stammered George; "of course not."
"You know I never did care for the world," continued Grace, softly; "the world is nothing to me. I have often thought of this day; I knew it would have to come sooner or later. But now it has come, you must give me time to think, before I decide on any definite step."
"Of course," said George, feeling something like dislike for her.
"I cannot endure my life as it is," she went on.
"We could begin a new life—together in Italy."
"Do you mean—we could run away?"