It seemed slightly condescending.
'There's no knowing; perhaps if I had married a literary man---'
She paused, smiling and musing. 'But then I haven't, you see.'
She laughed. 'Albert is anything but a bookworm, as you know.'
'You wouldn't wish him to be.'
'Oh no! Not a bookworm. To be sure, we suit each other very well
indeed. He likes society just as much as I do. It would be the
death of him if he didn't spend three-quarters of every day with
lively people.'
'That's rather a large portion. But then you count yourself among
the lively ones.'
They exchanged looks, and laughed together.
'Of course you think me rather silly to want to talk so much with
silly people,' Edith went on. 'But then there's generally some
amusement to be got, you know. I don't take life quite so
seriously as you do. People are people, after all; it's good fun
to see how they live and hear how they talk.'
Amy felt that she was playing a sorry part. She thought of sour
grapes, and of the fox who had lost his tail. Worst of all,
perhaps Edith suspected the truth. She began to make inquiries
about common acquaintances, and fell into an easier current of
gossip.
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