Of course, had Lilia been different--had she
asserted herself and got a grip on his character--he might
possibly--though not probably--have been made a better husband
as well as a better man, and at all events he could have
adopted the attitude of the Englishman, whose standard is
higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lilia
been different she might not have married him.
The discovery of his infidelity--which she made by
accident--destroyed such remnants of self-satisfaction as her
life might yet possess. She broke down utterly and sobbed
and cried in Perfetta's arms. Perfetta was kind and even
sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak to
Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lilia
agreed, partly because she was afraid of him, partly because
it was, after all, the best and most dignified thing to do.
She had given up everything for him--her daughter, her
relatives, her friends, all the little comforts and luxuries
of a civilized life--and even if she had the courage to break
away, there was no one who would receive her now. The
Herritons had been almost malignant in their efforts against
her, and all her friends had one by one fallen off. So it
was better to live on humbly, trying not to feel,
endeavouring by a cheerful demeanour to put things right.
"Perhaps," she thought, "if I have a child he will be
different. I know he wants a son."
Lilia had achieved pathos despite herself, for there are
some situations in which vulgarity counts no longer.
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