"There is something very successful in your attitude, Marie," she said. "You go about hurling home-truths at people; you hold up looking-glasses to them, and make them see themselves; you point out what brutes they are, and scold them for it; but they never bear you any ill-will, and always want to see you. You really must not go into the country: we cannot get on without you!"
"Ah, if I only was conceited enough to think that, I should go!"
"That is truly amiable. But what I mean is this: you have got somehow the quality of centrality; our parties--I'm sure I don't know why--are brilliant if you are there, and sensibly flatter if you are not. I suppose it is because people are always talking about you, and it is so nice in one's own house to be able to point to the original. At the same time, I always feel about you as if you were the volcano on which we were all dancing."
"I shan't explode: I am the least likely person in the world to explode," said Marie.
"Ah, you never can tell about volcanoes. That is the joy of them. I snatch a fearful joy from you, dear. I wish I was a volcano. How do you manage it? Do you get very angry inside, and determine not to say anything till the pressure is irresistible? By the way, Jim Spencer has just come back. You know him, I suppose? Anyhow, you will meet him at dinner this evening."
"Jim Spencer? Why, of course I do. We were brought up together almost. Then--well, then I married, and I lost sight of him somehow."
"One does," observed Mrs. Brereton. "Marriage often produces a sort of moral cataract."
"Don't be foolish, Mildred. There is nothing cheaper or easier or falser than that sort of innuendo. Besides, he went abroad; he has been away two years, I should think."
"Oh, if you want to know, there is no earthly reason why I should not tell you. He proposed to me. But I always liked him very much."
"I always said so," remarked Mrs. Brereton.
"Then you had no business to. Dear Jim! I shall be delighted to see him again. He is one of the few really reasonable people I know. He has got some sort of plan of his own; he has always known what he meant to do, though he has not always done it. For instance, he wanted impossible things; he had no money and I had none, so he proposed that we should marry and support ourselves by his writings. He has appeared before now in Christmas numbers."