The Black Cabinet by Patricia Wentworth

evening Bernard Austin succeeded in producing his rather well-worn proposal.
    â€œYou can’t say there are eight hundred people looking on now, Chloe, and I must have it out with you.”
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t,” said Chloe crossly. “It’s not the slightest use. I can’t think why you want to when you know it isn’t the slightest use.”
    Chloe had been sitting out an interval with Jack Renton. She made a movement to rise, but Bernard dropped into the empty chair beside her.
    â€œIt’s this way,” he began. “You say it’s no good; but as long as I go on seeing you I have the feeling that in the end you’ll listen to me. Why shouldn’t you? I’m making enough to give you a comfortable home; and a schoolmaster like a doctor—he’s bound to get married. Indeed he’s much more bound to get married than a doctor is. As a matter of fact, and quite apart from being in love with you, I’m bound to get married.” He brought an acquisitive gaze to bear upon Chloe and said firmly, “I need a wife.”
    When Bernard Austin talked like that Chloe always wanted to box his ears. Having received a refined education at the hands of Miss Tankerville, she restrained herself; but the tips of her fingers tingled badly.
    â€œI need a wife,” repeated Bernard Austin. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “As a bachelor, I am at a distinct disadvantage. Parents expect one to have a wife. Mrs. Methven Smith told me only yesterday that she would send her six boys to me if I were only married. The eldest is eight. She said she couldn’t feel any confidence that their underclothing would be changed at the proper times in the spring and autumn unless I had a wife that she could write to about it. I told her the school matron was most efficient; but she said that a wife would take more interest. I must have a wife.”
    â€œYou can have twenty so long as I’m not one of them,” said Chloe sharply.
    â€œI only want you,” said Bernard. “Mrs. Methven Smith—”
    â€œMy good Bernard,” said Chloe, “I haven’t the slightest intention of marrying anyone for ages. And when I do get married, it won’t be because I’ve got a passionate desire to talk about vests and pyjamas to Mrs. Methven Smith.”
    Bernard looked pained.
    â€œA wife should identify herself with her husband’s work. She should throw her whole heart into it. She—”
    â€œGood gracious, Bernard, do stop!” said Chloe in an exasperated voice. “When you’ve got a wife, she can do all those things; but they don’t interest me. Do you hear?—they simply don’t interest me. I’m not your wife; and I’m not going to be your wife.” She sprang up as she spoke. “I don’t want to be anybody’s wife; I want to dance.” She laughed over her shoulder at him. “You dance a heap better than you make love, Bernard. Look here, I’ll give you a really good tip,” she added as he got up and gave her his arm. “It won’t work with me, but it might with some one else. Next time you propose to a girl—no, don’t interrupt; it’s rude—next time, you try telling her what a lot of interest you’re going to take in her and how you’re going to put your whole heart into making her happy. And—don’t talk so much about yourself.”
    Chloe got home before Rose because Lady Gresson did not stay to the end of the ball, and Edward Anderson did. Chloe was sitting up in bed when Rose came in, pretty and glowing in the pink frock that she had made herself. She flung off her coat, and sank down on the bed with an, “Oh, Chloe, such heaps to tell you!”
    â€œSo have I,” said Chloe.
    â€œAnd you mustn’t mind—Chloe darling, you must promise not to mind, or it will spoil everything.”
    Chloe roused