"Doesn't Robin see it?"

"He doesn't see anything. He never knows when she's tired or got a
headache. She'll drop dead before he'll see it. He's utterly selfish, Miss
Frean. Wrapt up in himself and his horrid little ailments. Whatever
happens to Beatie he must have his sweetbread, and his soup at eleven and
his tea at five in the morning..

"... I suppose you think I might help more?"

"Well----" Harriett did think it.

"Well, I just won't. I won't encourage Robin. He ought to get her a proper
servant and a man for the garden and the bath chair. I wish you'd give him
a hint. Tell him she isn't strong. I can't. She'd snap my head off. Would
you mind?"

Harriett didn't mind. She didn't mind what she said. She wouldn't be
saying it to Robin, but to the contemptible thing that had taken Robin's
place. She still saw Robin as a young man, with young, shining eyes, who
came rushing to give himself up at once, to make himself known. She had no
affection for this selfish invalid, this weak, peevish bully.

Poor Beatrice. She was sorry for Beatrice. She resented his behavior to
Beatrice. She told herself she wouldn't be Beatrice, she wouldn't be
Robin's wife for the world. Her pity for Beatrice gave her a secret
pleasure and satisfaction.

After dinner she sat out in the garden talking to Robin's wife, while