"Perhaps not," said Cynthia; "a marriage rarely does prove anything. The third person who could explain is always silent." Then she said nothing for some minutes. When she spoke her face lit up with unfeigned gladness. "This Miss Hemingway has straw-coloured hair—and he detests blondes."
Then they both went to dress for dinner.
In reply to a letter from his friend the Hon. and
Rev. Percival Heathcote, inquiring, among other things, about that eccentric man, Godfrey Provence, the great Dobbs wrote as follows: —
"I will not say definitely that I am disappointed in him. His book is extremely clever, and I have heard of people reading it twice. That sounds well, but of course it may not mean money. At present I should call it an artistic rather than a financial success. Still, one can only hope for the best. He takes the whole thing very queerly—says that the book may be very poor stuff, but it is at all events the best he can do. That seems to please him more than all the rest—to think it is his best. He is most extraordinary—pig-headed as a mule! (Rather mixed that.) And, Lord save us! why did he marry? Have you seen her? Talk about 'pious orgies!' She is plain, is timid, and adores: figurez-vous. My wife tells me she has already started a tea-gown. Provence seems rather embarrassed, and is, I should say, quietly happy—with reservations. What did he see in her? However, the soul's the stature of the man—not his wife. He may be a giant, in spite of her."
