Mother used to say, after father died, that you couldn't measure a widow's grief by the length of her veil; and that's just exactly the way I feel about Algy.

I know you'll understand, Gabriella, because you always understand everything--" "He was so deeply in love with you," observed Gabriella sympathetically, while Florrie, diving amid the foam of her laces, brought out a tiny handkerchief, and delicately pecked at the corner of her eye, not near enough to redden the lid and not far enough away to disturb the rice powder on the side of her nose.
"He was crazy about me to the very last, you never saw anything like it.
Of course we weren't a bit alike, I don't mind telling you so, Gabriella, because I know you'll never repeat it.

We weren't really congenial, for Algy was just wrapped up in his law books, and there were whole days together when he wouldn't open his mouth, but that didn't seem to make any difference because, as he used to say, one of us had to listen sometimes.

But, you know, mother says a pair of opposites makes the happiest marriage, and after being married to Algy, I feel how true that is.

I got into the habit of talking so much when I used to run on about nothing to cheer him up--he was always so grave and glum even as a boy, you remember--and during his last illness--you know he died of Bright's disease, poor darling, and it came on just like that!--he used to make me talk to him for hours and hours just to keep him from thinking.