She left him his liberty;
she was starving herself to build up his fortunes; she allowed
herself none of the joys of femininity--no dresses, no
jewels--hardly even friendships, for fear they should cost money.
And yet, oddly, she could not but be aware that both Mrs Basil and
Maisie Maidan were nice women. The curious, discounting eye
which one woman can turn on another did not prevent her seeing
that Mrs Basil was very good to Edward and Mrs Maidan very
good for him. That seemed her to be a monstrous and
incomprehensible working of Fate's. Incomprehensible! Why, she
asked herself again and again, did none of the good deeds that she
did for her husband ever come through to him, or appear to hime
as good deeds? By what trick of mania could not he let her be as
good to him as Mrs Basil was? Mrs Basil was not so
extraordinarily dissimilar to herself. She was, it was true, tall,
dark, with soft mournful voice and a great kindness of manner for
every created thing, from punkah men to flowers on the trees. But
she was not so well read as Lenora, at any rate in learned books.
Leonora could not stand novels. But, even with all her differences,
Mrs Basil did not appear to Leonora to differ so very much from
herself.
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