Crazy Radio eBooks

Oh, I know I've got a motor and a lot of French
dresses, and a maid, and I don't have to get up in the morning, because,
as you say, I have nothing else to do--and I suppose that might make
some people happy."
"You've got a husband," said Portia in a thin brittle voice. "That might
count for something, I should think."
"Yes, and what good am I to him?" Rose demanded. "He can't talk to
me--not about his work or anything like that. And I can't help him any
way. I'm something nice for him to make love to, when he feels like
doing it, and I'm a nuisance when I make scenes and get tragic. And
that's all. That's--marriage, I guess. You're the lucky one, Portia."
The silence had lasted a good while before Rose noticed that there was
any special quality about it--became aware that since the end of her
outburst--of which she was ashamed even while she yielded to it, because
it represented not what she meant, but what, at the moment, she
felt--Portia had not stirred; had sat there as rigidly still as a figure
carved in ivory.


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