Against nonentities of all kinds Adela Branston set
her face, and had a polite way of dropping people from whom she derived
no amusement, pleading in her pretty childish way that it was so much
more pleasant for all parties. That this mundane existence of ours was
not intended to be all pleasure, was an idea that never yet troubled
Adela Branston's mind. She had been petted and spoiled by everyone about
her from the beginning of her brief life, and had passed from the
frivolous career of a school-girl to a position of wealth and
independence as Michael Branston's wife; fully believing that, in making
the sacrifice involved in marrying a man forty years her senior, she
earned the right to take her own pleasure, and to gratify every caprice
of her infantile mind, for the remainder of her days. She was supremely
selfish in an agreeable unconscious fashion, and considered herself a
domestic martyr whenever she spent an hour in her husband's sick-room,
listening to his peevish accounts of his maladies, or reading a _Times_
leader on the threatening aspect of things in the City for the solace of
his loneliness and pain.
The popping of corks sounded merrily amidst the buzz of conversation, and
great antique silver tankards of Badminton and Moselle cup were emptied
as by magic, none knowing how except the grave judicial-looking butler,
whose omniscient eye reigned above the pleasant confusion of the scene.
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