But
you've not got to idealize me, you know. You remember what I once
said to you--don't you?"
"What was that?"
"There's a beast in every man, thank God!"
"Yes--I don't think I shall ever forget that."
"Well--don't," he added.
But even this did not harbour in her mind. She wrote long, impulsive
letters to Janet, pouring out a flood of description of all the places
which they visited, opening her heart of its perfect happiness.
"You said he was hard once," she wrote from Florence. "You said you
knew he was hard. He's never said a hard thing to me the whole time
we've been away. He may be hard to other people. I've seen him awfully
bitter sometimes, but never to me. We are in love, you see. We shall
always be in love. Dear, dear old Janet, I wish you could be with
us."
Janet took a deep breath when she had finished the reading of that
letter, and when Mrs. Hewson pushed some shrimps on to her plate,
she pulled the shells from them with impatient energy.
And so--slowly, even in that month--some little of the change in her
character was wrought. Her nature began to set in the mould of luxury
in which he placed her. Not for one moment was she spoilt by it; not
for one moment made selfish.
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