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What sort of a woman is she? Is she a woman at all, I wonder,
or only a piece of stucco that ought to be put up in a church corner! To
think she could have you nine years and never say one word about. . . .
Well, well! What has she been doing with you? Talking about the
mysteries, I suppose--prayers and retreats and novenas, and the
spiritual bridegroom and the rest of it, while all the while. . . . But
you must put the convent out of your head, my girl. You are a married
woman now. You've got to think of your husband, and a husband isn't a
spiritual bridegroom I can tell you. He's flesh and blood, that's what a
husband is, and you can't expect _him_ to spend his time talking about
eternity and the rosary. Not on his wedding-day, anyway."
I was hot in my absurd embarrassment, and I dare say my face was
scarlet, but Aunt Bridget showed me no mercy.
"The way you have behaved is too silly for anything. . . . It really is.
A husband's a husband, and a wife's a wife. The wife has to obey her
husband. Of course she has.


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