At the age of nine she had not been so utterly irresponsible as George was at twenty-six; as an infant in arms she had probably regarded the universe with a profounder philosophy.

Though of course George was charming, he was without any sense of the deeper purpose of life.

Like a child he must have what he wanted, and like a child he sulked when he was thwarted and grew angelic when his wishes were gratified.

A single day had taught her that his father could not depend on him in business, that his mother could not trust him even to remember a dinner engagement.

Gabriella loved him, she had chosen him, she told herself now, and she meant to abide by her choice; but she was not blind, she was not a fool, and she was deficient in the kind of loyalty which obliges one to lie even in the sanctity of one's own mind.
She would be true to him, but she would be true with her eyes open, not shut.
"George," she said presently, while she loosened her hair, "your father told me you didn't stay more than an hour in the office." The question, "What were you doing ?" rose to her lips, but she strangled the words before they escaped her.