And the
worst of it was that the woman was not a mere pretender! She had a fine,
hard brain,--"as good as Arthur's--nearly--and he knows it. It is that
which attracts him--and excites him. I can mend his socks; I can listen
while he reads; and he used to like it when I praised. Now, what I say
will never matter to him any more; that was just sentiment and nonsense;
now, he only wants to know what _she_ says;--that's business! He writes
with her in his mind--and when he has finished something he sends it off
to her, straight. I may see it when all the world may--but she has the
first-fruits!"
And in poor Doris's troubled mind the whole scene--save the two central
figures, Lady Dunstable and Arthur--seemed to melt away. She was not the
first wife, by a long way, into whose quiet breast Lady Dunstable had
dropped these seeds of discord. She knew it well by report; but it was
hateful, both to wifely feeling and natural vanity, that _she_ should
now be the victim of the moment, and should know no more than her
predecessors how to defend herself.
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