"Am I very like her?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered. "Marvellously like her as she used to be: except for
just one thing. Perhaps that will come to you later. I thought, for the
moment, as you stood there by the door . . . " He did not finish the
sentence.
"Tell me about her," she said. "I never knew she had been an actress."
He did not ask her how she had learnt it. "She gave it up when we were
married," he said. "The people she would have to live among would have
looked askance at her if they had known. There seemed no reason why they
should."
"How did it all happen?" she persisted. "Was it very beautiful, in the
beginning?" She wished she had not added that last. The words had
slipped from her before she knew.
"Very beautiful," he answered, "in the beginning."
"It was my fault," he went on, "that it was not beautiful all through. I
ought to have let her take up her work again, as she wished to, when she
found what giving it up meant to her. The world was narrower then than
it is now; and I listened to the world. I thought it another voice.
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