It is only right that you should have any
pleasure I can give you."
"You are too good to me," Clarissa answered with a faint sigh.
Her husband did not notice the sigh; but he did remark the phrase, which
was one she had used very often--one that wounded him a little whenever he
heard it.
"It is not a question of goodness, my dear," he said. "I love you, and I
want to make you happy."
Later in the afternoon, when the racing was at its height, and almost all
Mr. Wooster's visitors had crowded to the terrace by the river, Clarissa
strolled into one of the shrubbery walks, quite alone. It was after
luncheon; and the rattle of plates and glasses, and the confusion of
tongues that had obtained during the banquet, had increased the nervous
headache with which she had begun the day. This grove of shining laurel
and arbutus was remote from the river, and as solitary just now as if Mr.
Wooster's hundred or so of guests had been miles away. There were rustic
benches here and there: and Clarissa seated herself upon one of them, which
was agreeably placed in a recess amongst the greenery. She was more than
usually depressed to-day, and no longer able to maintain that artificial
vivacity by which she had contrived to conceal her depression. Her sin had
found her out. The loveless union, entered upon so lightly, was beginning
to weigh her down, as if the impalpable tie that bound her to her husband
had been the iron chain that links a galley-slave to his companion.
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