"I suppose you do know," said Mr. Kennedy, again working his eye,
and thrusting his chin forward.
"I imagine that she was not happy."
"Happy? What right had she to expect to be happy? Are we to believe
that we should be happy here? Are we not told that we are to look
for happiness there, and to hope for none below?" As he said this he
stretched his left hand to the ceiling. "But why shouldn't she have
been happy? What did she want? Did she ever say anything against me,
Mr. Finn?"
"Nothing but this,--that your temper and hers were incompatible."
"I thought at one time that you advised her to go away?"
"Never!"
"She told you about it?"
"Not, if I remember, till she had made up her mind, and her father
had consented to receive her. I had known, of course, that things
were unpleasant."
"How were they unpleasant? Why were they unpleasant? She wouldn't let
you come and dine with me in London. I never knew why that was. When
she did what was wrong, of course I had to tell her. Who else should
tell her but her husband? If you had been her husband, and I only
an acquaintance, then I might have said what I pleased.
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