Nobody could have for a moment supposed from her
manner that she loved Horace Smithson; but nobody had the right to
think that she detested him. She accepted all his attentions as a thing
of course. The flowers which he strewed beneath her footsteps, the
pearls which he melted in her wine--metaphorically speaking--were just
'good enough' and no more. This afternoon, when Mr. Smithson asked her
how she liked the arrangements of the saloon and cabin, she said she
thought they would do very nicely. 'They would do.' Nothing more.
'It is dreadfully small, of course,' she said, 'when one is accustomed
to rooms: but it is rather amusing to be in a sort of doll's house, and
on deck it is really very nice.'
This was the most Mr. Smithson had for his pains, and he seemed to be
content therewith. If a man will marry the prettiest girl of the year he
must be satisfied with such scant civility as conscious perfection may
give him. We know that Aphrodite was not altogether the most comfortable
wife, and that Helen was a cause of trouble.
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