iiiiiiBiiiiiiiiii
 
 art&ur grtantonoi per 
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY. 
 
 THE JESTER OF ST. TIMOTHY'S. Illustrated. 
 
 THE CRASHAW BROTHERS. Illustrated. 
 
 THE NEW BOY. Illustrated. 
 
 HARDING OF ST. TIMOTHY'S. Illustrated. 
 
 THE ANCIENT GRUDGE. 
 
 THE YOUNG IN HEART. 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 BOSTON AND NBW YORK
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY
 
 THE 
 
 WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR STANTVOOD PIER 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 ibe prc0s CambriDge 
 1914
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 Published March 11)14
 
 To 
 MY WIFE 
 
 2137759
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. BEFORE BREAKFAST 3 
 
 II. THE AGGRIEVED BACHELORS . . .11 
 
 III. A VERY WELL-BEHAVED YOUNG MAN . 24 
 
 IV. A RESCUE AT SEA 31 
 
 V. THE RESCUER 37 
 
 VI. THE RESCUED 45 
 
 VII. PROGRESS OF A HONEYMOON ... 56 
 
 VIII. VENICE 64 
 
 IX. THE SOUND OF TRUMPETS FROM AFAR . 71 
 
 X. THE DESERTED BRIDE 82 
 
 XI. THE BEGINNING OF AN EXCURSION . 100 
 
 XII. THE END OF AN EXCURSION . . . 108 
 
 XIII. THE AQUAMARINE PENDANT . . . 122 
 
 XIV. MESSENGERS OF AID 131 
 
 XV. DEATH AND BATTLEFIELDS .... 139 
 
 XVI. "SuN, MOON, AND STARS FORGOT" . 144 
 XVII. GREETINGS FROM DR. ARMAZET . . 154 
 XVIII. A LITTLE HOUSE IN MARLBOROUGH 
 
 STREET 163 
 
 XIX. THE GREATEST OF ALL DAYS . . . 170 
 
 XX. ROSAMOND DWELLS UPON HER DESTINY . 183 
 
 XXI. THE DULLNESS OF LIFE .... 194 
 
 XXII. THE PROTEGE 203 
 
 I vii ]
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 XXIII. SPRING OF THE YEAR . . . .212 
 
 XXIV. A HUSBAND'S INDIAN SUMMER . . 218 
 XXV. MOTHER AND CHILD AND A LOST 
 
 ILLUSION 226 
 
 XXVI. A YOUNG MAN REVOLVING ABOUT A 
 
 YOUNG MAN'S CENTER . . . 234 
 
 XXVII. THE IMAGE OF HIS FATHER . .241 
 
 XXVIII. HETTY FREES HER MIND . . . 250 
 
 XXIX. ROSAMOND 255 
 
 XXX. DOROTHY WISHES HER MOTHER TO BE 
 
 HAPPY 260 
 
 XXXI. PHASES OF CONTENTMENT . . . 270 
 XXXII. A NECESSARY DEPARTURE AND AN 
 
 UNNECESSARY FAREWELL . . . 279 
 
 XXXIII. TWIN PRETEXTS, WITH MENTION OF 
 
 AN IMPORTANT INCIDENT . . . 290 
 
 XXXIV. GEORGE PREPARES FOR LESSONS IN A 
 
 NEW SCHOOL 298 
 
 XXXV. GEORGE FINDS THAT IT is EASIER 
 
 TO LEARN LESSONS THAN TO TEACH 
 THEM 306 
 
 XXXVI. SEPARATE ROADS 315 
 
 XXXVII. THE NIGHT OF THE PLAY . . .327 
 
 XXXVIII. BETWEEN HUSBAND AND WIFE . . 337 
 
 XXXIX. BETWEEN MOTHER AND CHILD . . 346 
 
 XL. O GLORIOUS, DECISIVE NOON! . . 355 
 
 XLI. THE WHEEL HAS COME FULL CIRCLE 366
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY
 
 THE WOMEN WE MAKEY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 BEFORE BREAKFAST 
 
 IN the summer of 1899 George Brandon set out for 
 home after six months of wandering and collecting 
 in the interior of Brazil. He felt an impatience to arrive 
 greater than any zest with which he had ever embarked 
 upon an expedition. It hurried him through the jungle 
 and over the mountains; it urged him to pace the deck 
 restlessly after he took the steamer at Colon; it warded 
 sleep from his eyes during the night trip from New York 
 to Boston. 
 
 On a warm morning in July he drove through the 
 streets of the Back Bay. The barred doors and windows, 
 the blank pavements offered no welcome to the returned 
 traveler. But he looked on them with a kindly eye; these 
 were the streets that Rosamond had been accustomed to 
 tread; Manchester, where she now must be, was only an 
 hour away; in a few minutes, perhaps, he should be talk- 
 ing with her by telephone. He looked at his watch 
 half -past seven; he had forgotten for the moment at 
 what an early hour the midnight train was accustomed 
 to deposit one in Boston. He should have to wait until 
 nine before telephoning; his impatience culminated at 
 the thought, and he drummed hard on one of his pre- 
 cious small wooden boxes. 
 
 [ 3 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 The recollection of similar returns, made in hope and 
 crowned with failure, did not abate the present buoy- 
 ancy of his heart. His former excursions had never 
 possessed the ultimate and decisive quality of this. 
 
 Never had he undertaken one of his journeys without 
 feeling that Rosamond had driven him to it. Before 
 starting out he had always tried to make her realize her 
 responsibility. In his state of mind, to live in the same 
 city with her was unsettling to his faculties; and after a 
 protracted period during which attack and repulse, 
 attack and repulse succeeded each other with unfailing 
 regularity, he had felt obliged to deliver an ultimatum. 
 Unless she yielded to his appeals, he should have to 
 withdraw himself to the uttermost parts of the earth and 
 catch butterflies. The pursuit of lepidoptera, from being 
 a hobby, had attained the dignity of a scientific interest, 
 and could be made to furnish the solace and excitement 
 of adventure. "I can't go on spending my life in futile 
 entreaties," he had said severely. 
 
 With the inexhaustible iteration of the lover, George 
 had four times thus shamelessly achieved pathos in her 
 eyes. She was a believing soul, and her heart was wrung 
 at the evidence of the desperation to which she was 
 driving a man. She had shown her emotion, and there- 
 fore George had dared to leave her, in spite of the several 
 other contending suitors for her hand. But with all her 
 display of emotion, she had remained stubborn, and so 
 during his preceding absences he had kept himself before 
 her by frequent letters. 
 
 As the results had been negligible, he had decided that 
 this was a blunder in tactics, that he had caused her to 
 
 [ 4 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 feel too sure of him. So on taking his leave of her for 
 this last and longest expedition, although he had ob- 
 served with gratification that her part in the fell business 
 was occasioning her even more distress than usual, he 
 had resolved to be extraordinarily inexorable. He sus- 
 pected that in his absence she subsisted for her happi- 
 ness largely upon his letters, and that the beneficial 
 influence of separation was nullified by the warmth of 
 his correspondence. During this last expedition he had 
 written her not one letter. 
 
 He had a premonition that this policy would prove 
 successful. She had no doubt come to feel that she had 
 lost him; in the unexpected rapture of having him return 
 she would probably grasp the fact that he was indispen- 
 sable to her happiness. 
 
 She did not know that he was in this part of the world; 
 how startled, possibly even ecstatic, she would be at 
 hearing his voice ! 
 
 In his rooms he found an accumulation of mail. He 
 looked through it to see if there was anything of an 
 interesting appearance, and found a letter from Rosa- 
 mond. Standing by the window, he opened it. 
 
 "Dear George," he read. "I don't know that this let- 
 ter will ever reach you, but I must send you the news if I 
 can. I am engaged to be married to Graham Rappallo. 
 Do be always my good friend. Somehow I feel that I 
 have dropped out of your life and that in my happiness 
 I shall not make you unhappy. 
 
 " Ever your sincere friend, 
 
 "ROSAMOND RAMSAY." 
 I 5 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 George folded the letter slowly and replaced it in the 
 envelope. He had come into the room a few minutes 
 before, alert, eager, brimming with confidence and 
 vitality; now with the slow uncertainty of one dazed and 
 stunned, he sank into a chair. His mind refused to grap- 
 ple with this monstrous announcement; slowly he drew 
 the note again from the envelope, slowly he again read 
 it, and then he let it slip from his fingers to the floor. He 
 felt dazed, inert, stricken. Thought came to him by 
 degrees and shot pangs into every corner of his con- 
 sciousness. The thousand little dreams that he had 
 dreamed could never be. The little plans that he had 
 laid for freshly recommending himself to Rosamond 
 were overturned. Even this day to which he had looked 
 forward with joyous anticipation had been transformed 
 into a day of misery and emptiness this day ! good 
 God, his whole life! He was suddenly left without an 
 object to strive for, without the luring gleam of a happi- 
 ness to win. He saw himself in the mirror across the 
 room, and the face that he had been accustomed to 
 regard with friendly interest and to cherish with modest 
 pride seemed now the face of one beaten and ferocious, 
 ineffectual and lawless. The carefully brushed thick 
 black hair and the healthy dark complexion invited his 
 scorn. Fool to think that he had ever taken satisfaction 
 in such vapid vanities! And fool, thrice fool, to think 
 that Rosamond could ever have loved those heavy lips 
 and that dogged, yes, that criminal-looking jaw! He 
 recalled with an embittering irony the smug fancies with 
 which he had beguiled his homeward way; how he had 
 determined if she would be his wife to take up content- 
 
 I 6 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 edly the surgical work which in restlessness he had so 
 often abandoned take it up contentedly and plod 
 along at it even though already outstripped by his con- 
 temporaries. The ironical memory of having debated 
 with himself the choice of ushers for his wedding added 
 piquancy to his sufferings, as did the memory of fre- 
 quent past imaginings of himself receiving the bride at 
 the altar, and of the look in her dear eyes. 
 
 The thought of that look, the thought that it was to be 
 for another man, put him into a sudden fury. He 
 brought his fist down on the table, crying aloud, "I'll 
 fight for her, I'll fight for her!" She was only engaged; 
 she was not yet married. He took up her letter again to 
 look at the date; it had been written two months ago. 
 Perhaps she was already finding that she had made a 
 mistake; perhaps it needed only his reappearance to con- 
 vince her. Hope flashed out of his darkness. He would 
 plead with her this very day. Graham Rappallo hope 
 flickered more dimly. If it had been one of those whom 
 he had known to be courting her, Tom Simcox or Clar- 
 ence Milne or Stephen Foster, he would have felt almost 
 sanguine of expelling the usurper; he had never been 
 afraid of any of them. But Graham Rappallo must have 
 swept down on her suddenly and as suddenly seized 
 upon her imagination. Brilliant and bold, handsome, an 
 athlete, with now a touch of military glory and glamour 
 to adorn him, Graham Rappallo might easily have 
 enthralled an impressionable girl. 
 
 George stripped off his clothes while he reflected on 
 these unpromising considerations; he splashed for some 
 minutes in his bath, rubbed himself down with great 
 
 [ 7 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 vigor, and felt better. As he glanced over his well-made 
 body, he told himself aggressively that he was as good a 
 man as Rappallo; he wished that Rosamond would sub- 
 mit him and Rappallo to some sort of a gladiatorial test! 
 It galled him to think that probably Rappallo was pre- 
 ferred because he had seen service in a paltry little war; 
 he himself had dared more perils chasing butterflies than 
 any amateur soldier in Cuba! 
 
 By the time he was dressed he had calmed himself suf- 
 ficiently to realize that it was still too early for telephon- 
 ing, and to examine the rest of his accumulated letters. 
 He ripped through them, finding nothing to arrest his 
 attention until he opened what was obviously a wedding 
 invitation. He glanced at it and let it fall to the floor. 
 Then he sat down upon the sofa and leaned his head 
 back against the wall and turned his face up towards the 
 ceiling. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Rudolph Ramsay were inviting him 
 to attend the wedding of their daughter Rosamond to 
 Mr. Graham Rappallo. 
 
 George at last rose, and without picking up either note 
 or invitation crossed the room and rang a bell. Pres- 
 ently the valet who looked after the comfort of the 
 young men in the Mortimer Apartments appeared; 
 George ordered breakfast. While he waited for it he 
 smoked three cigarettes, pacing back and forth and 
 eyeing gloomily the sheet of paper that he had dropped. 
 At last he caught it up and glanced at the date, which 
 he had not noticed. The wedding was to take place 
 that very afternoon, at Manchester. 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed George aloud to himself, 
 [ 8 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "how many shocks can a man endure on an empty 
 stomach! Where the devil is my breakfast!" 
 
 He lighted a fourth cigarette; he was singeing his 
 mustache on the stub when the breakfast appeared. 
 "Walter," he said to the valet, "please have a blue suit 
 pressed for me this morning. I shall want it at twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the valet, who was gray-haired and 
 impeccably English. "Pleasant morning we're having, 
 sir. Pleasant to see you home again, sir." 
 
 "Thanks," said George. "Boston 's the deuce of a 
 place in July." 
 
 "A bit dead, but I suppose no warmer than Brazil, 
 sir?" 
 
 "Yes, it was hot there," George admitted. "But I 
 prefer the kind of butterflies they have in Brazil." He 
 spoke with violence. 
 
 "Did you bring home some fine specimens, sir?" 
 
 "Pretty good. When I get my cases unpacked, you 
 may see them." 
 
 "Thank you, sir; it's always a pleasure." 
 
 The valet withdrew. When in the course of an hour he 
 returned to remove the breakfast things, George was 
 kneeling on the floor; with hammer and chisel he was 
 prying the cover off a small wooden box. Other boxes, 
 already open, were on the floor beside him; the contents 
 were still unrevealed, protected by paraffine paper. 
 
 George glanced up and caught the look of expectant 
 interest in the man's eyes. "Here," he said, "I'm going 
 to open this one now." 
 
 He placed the box on the table and carefully lifted the 
 [ 9 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 sheet of paraffine paper. The valet bent over with eyes 
 shining and gave a low, respectful exclamation of de- 
 light. A great purple and gold butterfly with a spread 
 of wings of nearly ten niches was the sole occupant of 
 the box the largest, most magnificent butterfly that 
 Walter had ever seen. 
 
 "We'll look at it in the light," said George, and he 
 carried the box to the window. The valet looked over 
 his shoulder and gazed with an admiration too deep for 
 speech. In the sunlight, the still and shining thing 
 seemed too beautiful to be dead. Its rich purple was iri- 
 descent now; veins of gold ran irregularly out from 
 thorax to wing-tip; and ruby and amethystine lights 
 showed, yet seemed half-hidden in the iridescence. At 
 the base of the wings two heart-shaped flecks of scarlet 
 gave a bleeding, human, touching significance to the 
 brilliancy of the thing. 
 
 "It's beautiful; what is it called, sir?" asked the 
 valet. 
 
 "It's a new species unknown to me, at least," 
 replied George. "I named it Imperatrix R." 
 
 "It's beautiful," repeated the valet. 
 
 George looked at the man's absorbed face and fas- 
 cinated eyes. 
 
 "And she never looked at any of my specimens with 
 such eyes!" he thought bitterly.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE AGGRIEVED BACHELORS 
 
 GEORGE BRANDON'S rooms were on the top floor 
 of an apartment house facing Boston Common. 
 From his front windows he could look over the elms of 
 the Common to the shops and office buildings of Boyl- 
 ston Street, and over the maples and alien trees of the 
 Public Garden to the suave line of Arlington Street 
 the frontier of the Back Bay. Arlington Street Church 
 and the tower of Trinity and the spire of the New Old 
 South were all within his vision, rising from the distant 
 mass of huddled roofs. The corner on which the apart- 
 ment house stood was one where two distinct lines of 
 the city's life intersected each other, the noisy trolley 
 cars and rattling drays of Charles Street, and the sleek 
 soft-rolling carriages of Beacon. 
 
 From his side windows George viewed the roofs march- 
 ing up Beacon Hill to culminate in the State House 
 dome at the apex roofs, chimneys, and chimney-pots, 
 beginning below him and rising in the distance. Pigeons 
 were always strutting and love-making on these roofs; 
 often they flew up to rest on George's window sills. 
 He had encouraged them in the past by putting crumbs 
 out for them; he liked to see them at close range and 
 study their colors. The bright colors of birds and butter- 
 flies had a never-ending fascination for him. 
 t When George had first taken these rooms, he had de- 
 [ 11 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 signed to devote himself to the practice of medicine, and 
 he had furnished them with a view to the needs of a 
 young physician. His living-room the room fronting 
 on the Common was also to be a waiting-room for 
 patients. The room behind it was to be his office. But 
 as time went by and George still waited for patients 
 instead of keeping patients waiting for him, and as his 
 expeditions and the collections resulting therefrom made 
 more demands upon his time and space, the character 
 of the apartment was altered. 
 
 The austere, unfriendly furnishings of the doctor's 
 waiting-room had given place to objects of more indi- 
 viduality and warmth two ancient high-backed Eng- 
 lish chairs with gilded carvings, a Chinese inlaid table, 
 supporting an old bronze Chinese lamp, and a side 
 table on which were decanters, containing liquids of 
 hospitable hue. 
 
 When Hetty Mallory, George's sister, first surveyed 
 the transformed apartment, she exclaimed crudely, 
 "George dear! this does n't look like business." 
 
 George shrugged his shoulders. "It does well enough 
 for a bon vivant." 
 
 "The complete bachelor according to Ouida," ob- 
 served Hetty disparagingly. " I suppose you have dumb 
 bells under your bed, and chest weights in your bath- 
 room, and a punching-bag to exercise on when you're 
 in your pajamas ! " 
 
 "Not at all; here you see the man of science." George 
 took his sister into the room which had once been in- 
 tended to serve him as an office. But the glass operat- 
 ing-table had been sold, and the book-case filled with
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 medical lore had been removed; even George's diploma 
 from the Medical School and the certificate from the 
 State Board of Medical Examiners, which had hung 
 side by side on the wall, were no longer visible. In fact 
 there was no wall space left on which to hang anything, 
 for a series of tall mahogany cases containing innumer- 
 able little drawers had been installed and reached almost 
 to the ceiling. 
 
 "Butterflies!" Hetty had exclaimed, taking in at a 
 glance the significance of these furnishings. "What an 
 inconsequent occupation!" 
 
 George had felt hurt. But then, as Hetty was accus- 
 tomed to remark, the truth almost always hurts. She 
 had often told George that he needed first to be jacked 
 up and then to have a fire built under him. If she could 
 achieve the first operation, she was pretty sure that 
 Rosamond Ramsay would perform the second. 
 
 The idea of her father's son frittering away his life 
 was abhorrent to Hetty. Dr. George Brandon had been 
 one of the useful men of his generation, and Hetty had 
 inherited a belief in energy, activity, industry and 
 in devoting them to serve useful purposes. Her father 
 had been one of the heroes of his profession. It was an 
 infection derived from some dangerous laboratory ex- 
 periments that had carried him off. Hetty passionately 
 adored her father's life and the manner of his death. 
 She could not understand how, in the memory of it, 
 George, who had the surgeon's native skill and tastes, 
 could so lack incentive and purpose. In a way, her at- 
 titude, which was similar to that of many older men of 
 the profession, influenced George to move in precisely 
 [ 13 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 the opposite direction from that which she desired. It 
 seemed to him that he was constantly falling short of 
 what people expected of him and so was being viewed 
 with disapproval; very well; since he could not succeed 
 in pleasing others, he might at least set about pleasing 
 himself. The belittling attitude of his sister towards his 
 butterflies only made him defiantly assertive of their 
 importance. The significance of lepidoptera in his life 
 had been artificially fostered. From having been an 
 amiable diversion of a young man with scientific tastes, 
 the collection and preservation of fragile winged things 
 had gradually taken on an interest which, temporarily 
 at least, made it a worthy occupation. To be sure, there 
 had been times when he contrasted it with the work his 
 father had done, and feeling its comparative unworthi- 
 ness, had been discontented. But on the other hand he 
 could not pursue one form of life unremittingly over all 
 the globe without acquiring knowledge of other forms 
 also. The great work of naturalists had been begun al- 
 ways from a relatively insignificant, even trivial, start- 
 ing-point. Darwin was not above studying the jellyfish. 
 And if to this line of argument with which George was 
 accustomed to reassure himself, a distinction between 
 studying and collecting was suggested, George would 
 make the mental reply, "Not in my case." 
 
 After brooding for some time over the shattering news 
 which had been contained in Rosamond's letter, he set 
 about unpacking his boxes and mounting his new speci- 
 mens. It was delicate work; he took the same interest 
 in it that he might have taken in deftly performing a 
 neat surgical operation; he was as careful in the use of 
 [ 14 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 the tools. In a task requiring such minute observation 
 and delicacy of touch, he temporarily forgot his sorrow. 
 
 It recurred to him when he had mounted and labeled 
 the last butterfly and slid the last drawer into place. 
 
 "There," he said, aloud, "that finishes a half-year 
 of work. And now what am I to do with myself?" 
 
 Graham Rappallo had deprived him of his expected 
 occupation. George viewed Graham somewhat as a 
 conscientious striker with an honest grievance looks 
 upon an imported strike-breaker who has taken his 
 place. 
 
 "Well," George said, after a pause, answering his 
 own question, "I suppose for one thing I might be get- 
 ting ready for the wedding." 
 
 He passed into the bedroom where the valet Walter 
 had laid out his clothes. After he had dressed, he found 
 that he had fifteen minutes before he needed to start 
 for the train. He began to debate with himself whether, 
 on the whole, he should go to the wedding. 
 
 "It will make me feel so damned badly," he said, 
 aloud. "But then," he added, "I feel so damned badly 
 already ! I might as well see it through. And there will 
 undoubtedly be champagne." 
 
 Thus, putting the best face possible on the matter, 
 he told Walter to call a cab, and a few minutes later he 
 was on his way to the North Station. 
 
 The wedding guests who waited hi front of the closed 
 gate of Track III, where the special car was being at- 
 tached to the Manchester train, suddenly underwent a 
 dramatic and pleasurable thrill, similar, no doubt, to 
 that experienced by festive banqueters to whom an 
 I 15 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 unexpected ghost appears. "It's George Brandon," was 
 the excited communication that ran quickly from one 
 to another, accompanied by a sudden turning of heads 
 and craning of necks, which gave a fortunate few a 
 glimpse of the young man in the arms of his sister. She, 
 astonished girl, retained sufficient self-possession to re- 
 lease him as hastily as she had embraced him; public 
 displays of a tender feeling were not at all to her mind. 
 
 "George dear, I never dreamed of laying eyes on you 
 here," she said. "Why did n't you let us know?" 
 
 "I just got in this morning," he explained. He shook 
 hands with his brother-in-law, and said, "Fine day for 
 the wedding." 
 
 Hetty looked at him compassionately. "Did you 
 hurry home because of it?" 
 
 "I knew nothing about it till I found the invitation 
 on my arrival. How long has Rappallo been after her? " 
 
 "Sit with us in the train and I'll tell you about it," 
 said Hetty. 
 
 The gate was opened, and the wedding guests and other 
 passengers streamed through. Philip Mallory, who had 
 greeted his brother-in-law with the absence of surprise 
 characteristic of a well-poised Bostonian in surprising 
 encounters, seated himself across the aisle from George 
 and Hetty, and unfolded a newspaper. Hetty began at 
 once. 
 
 "It all happened very suddenly. I think they had 
 never even met until four months ago. He 's an impetuous 
 person; from what I hear, he soon swept her off her feet. 
 Of course, his having been a Rough Rider in Cuba gave 
 him a certain picturesqueness, I suppose. She came her- 
 [ 16 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 self to tell me of her engagement. She said that the first 
 time she saw him, she had been fascinated and hoped 
 he would fall in love with her. In fact, she was more like 
 a child than a grown-up woman about it." Hetty 
 glanced sharply at her brother; she hoped that without 
 actually doing Rosamond an injustice she could still 
 put George so out of conceit with her that his sense of 
 suffering would be less than his sense of escape. "She 
 talked of thrills and a beating heart when his name was 
 announced, told how she lost her tongue in his presence, 
 to recover it and feel that with no one had she ever been 
 so brilliant and charming before. Yet she had thought 
 in the end that he had been rather indifferent, and so 
 she had gone home feeling quite unhappy. But that was 
 unnecessary; her conquest of him was almost as rapid as 
 his of her. She asked me," continued Hetty, "if there 
 was any way of communicating with you. It seemed to be 
 somewhat on her mind that she must send you the news." 
 
 "I got it in time," replied George. "I'm sorry it's 
 Rappallo superior and supercilious sort of fellow. If 
 it had been any one of those that were trying along 
 with me, I should n't have felt quite so cut up. I sup- 
 pose I'm an idiot, Hetty, to admit to you that I am 
 rather cut up." 
 
 Hetty gave him a sympathetic look and surreptitiously 
 patted his hand. 
 
 "Well, I'm not the only one," George said, catching 
 and holding her gloved fingers. "I wonder if Steve Fos- 
 ter is going to this function." 
 
 "Yes, he's on the train somewhere. I saw him as we 
 were passing through the gate." 
 I 17 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 " I think I '11 look him up," said George. 
 
 He passed on through the car, pausing here and there 
 to have a chat with young ladies and elderly ladies 
 equally affable with both. "Yes, just back from the ends 
 of the world here to-day and gone to-morrow; yes, 
 so fortunate to have got here just in time for this gay 
 occasion " Hetty caught some of his genial replies 
 and imagined the others, as she watched his debonair- 
 progress down the aisle. Her husband glanced after 
 him over the top of his newspaper. 
 
 "Seems to be bearing up," he remarked to Hetty. 
 
 "Would n't you if you felt that was what every one 
 was saying behind your back? " she retorted, with some 
 asperity. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and turned another page of 
 the newspaper. He was really rather sorry for George, 
 whom he liked, but he felt that George had brought this 
 disaster on himself by being so irresponsible, and that 
 being so irresponsible he would not take the disaster 
 very hard. Philip Mallory, proudly conscious of the 
 possession of a wife and two children and an obligation 
 to contribute somewhat to their support, was disposed 
 to regard as irresponsibly nomadic any unmarried man 
 who was fond of travel. 
 
 In the front seat of the car George found Stephen 
 Foster, reclining on the small of his back, his lanky 
 legs up in the air, his chin in his hands, and his eyes 
 looking morosely out of the window. George slipped 
 into the seat beside him and aroused Steve by pressing 
 his leg. 
 
 "Hello!" Foster turned and slid into a more upright 
 [ 18 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 position. He was a tall, thin fellow, with oblique eyes, 
 an inadequate nose, and a whimsical, dejected mouth. 
 His skin was pale, his shoulders were narrow; but the 
 twinkle in his Japanese brown eyes and the lift of the 
 corners of his lips when he smiled gave him an engaging 
 quality which caused people to overlook his physical 
 defects. "The last I heard of you, you were in Brazil; 
 bad news must travel fast." 
 
 "It did n't travel, but I ran home to hear it," replied 
 George. "With you and the others on the job in my 
 absence, I had no fear of a thing like this happening. 
 How could you have been so careless? " 
 
 "Careless is not the word," replied Foster, with a bit- 
 ter emphasis. "I put her in the way of falling in love with 
 the man. If it had n't been for me, I think positively 
 it never would have happened. You may imagine how 
 I've been enjoying myself!" 
 
 "What fool thing did you do?" 
 
 "It seemed innocent enough. I asked her to go with 
 me to see an exhibition of rough riding by the Troop. 
 You know Rappallo is Captain of the Troop. He was 
 the hero of the evening. He does ride splendidly, and he 
 did all kinds of daring and skillful feats, showing the 
 others how, top man in the pyramid, vaulting two 
 horses, and straddling a third at a gallop with never a 
 miss, the ideal cavalryman, and damnably handsome 
 at that; I dare say he fascinated more than half the girls 
 in the gallery. Anyway, after about two minutes Rosa- 
 mond said she could n't keep her eyes off him. A man 
 who is six feet tall and weighs less than a hundred and 
 thirty-five pounds should never select a rough-riding 
 [ 19 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 exhibition, or any other athletic spectacle for the scene 
 of his courting." 
 
 Foster had slid down again until his head was below 
 the top of the seat and his thin knees were cocked up on 
 a level with it. 
 
 "A good rule for most of those in the feather- 
 weight class," conceded George. " But for one of your 
 attractions, Steve, breaking it should have been a 
 pardonable indiscretion. And so long as she did n't 
 know Rappallo, I don't see why the thing resulted so 
 fatally." 
 
 "There again I was the agent," said Foster. "A week 
 later I was having supper with her at a ball when she 
 saw Rappallo and told me to bring him up. He danced 
 with her practically all the rest of the evening. They 
 were engaged within a month." 
 
 "I'd rather it had been you, Steve." 
 
 "Thanks; I would n't have minded half so much if 
 it had been you. But Rappallo of course, he 's a man 
 of ability; I don't know him well; I dare say that's the 
 chief trouble with him." 
 
 They were both silent for a while. "What irritates 
 me," said Foster, "is that at this wedding, at which 
 either of us might perfectly well have been a principal, 
 we shall both be mere nobodies. We shall be ushered to 
 our seats by fellows that don't know Rosamond at all; 
 they '11 be up at the front, and we shall be tucked away 
 in the background." 
 
 "Near enough for me," asserted George gloomily. 
 
 " We shan 't even be invited to the bride's table," con- 
 tinued Foster. " We shall just be left to hang around 
 I 20 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 outside, while the same lot of indifferent ushers are hear- 
 ing her talk and getting her last smiles." 
 
 George made no comment, and Foster resumed after 
 a pause, "Do you know what I'm going to do after it's 
 all over? I've enlisted as a cow-puncher on a cattle 
 steamer, sailing to-morrow." 
 
 "That's an idiotic idea. What's the point?" 
 
 "I want to work some of the soreness out of my mind 
 and into my body. I 'm disgusted anyway with the kind 
 of ladylike life I lead here. If I 'd been a Rough Rider, 
 Rappallo might not have had such an easy time of it. 
 I've never roughed it anywhere; now I'm going to cut 
 loose." 
 
 "You're working your passage over, are you? What 
 will you do then? " 
 
 "I haven't thought. I shall probably feel entitled 
 then to some amusement." 
 
 George laughed. "You'll do better to take passage 
 in the first cabin." 
 
 "No, this is a great moral experience that I'm about 
 to undergo. You 'd better share it with me. Though, of 
 course, you don't need it; you 've had adventure enough." 
 
 "It seems a crime to let you do such a thing alone; 
 some one ought to go along to look after you," said 
 George. 
 
 "Be the man. We'll have a great time in Europe. I 
 refuse to let this disappointment ruin my life." 
 
 "I may as well let it ruin mine; I'll go with you." 
 
 Foster again slid almost upright in his amazement. He 
 slapped George's leg and cried, "Fine for you! There's 
 an old shark on Atlantic Avenue; you have to pay him 
 I 21 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ten dollars, and he '11 find you a berth. I '11 take you to 
 him when we go back this afternoon. You're a good 
 sport, George." 
 
 "It's the amusement that appeals to me, and not the 
 adventure," George replied. 
 
 The two young men, laughing together, talking with 
 animation, did not present a very satisfactory appear- 
 ance to the few gossipy observers in the car, who would 
 have had them pale, dejected, silent, betraying their 
 blighted condition in every glance and gesture. Yet 
 when they left the train at Manchester and took their 
 seats in one of the barges that were to carry the guests 
 to the church, there was a sudden sobering of George's 
 mood. He was about to look upon the girl Rosamond 
 for the last time. Hereafter she would be a creature 
 altered, absorbed, remote, never any more to be the 
 companion spirit of his imagination, the very impulse 
 of his dreams. 
 
 Before a rustic little wooden church the barge drew 
 up. George Brandon and Steve Foster, though they 
 had been sitting together, here chose to separate. George 
 loitered a moment on the path; the white rail fence in 
 the shadow of the row of maple trees, the dusty road 
 climbing the hill and dotted with gay equipages, and in 
 the near foreground a young woman in white leading a 
 small bare-legged child made a picture that afterwards 
 recurred irrelevantly whenever he thought of that day. 
 
 The organ was playing softly as he entered the church, 
 
 and there was the airy fragrance of summer flowers in 
 
 the bright interior. The sunlight streamed through the 
 
 stained-glass windows upon the masses of clematis and 
 
 I 22 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 golden glow framing the chancel, gleamed on the golden 
 cross above the altar and the golden eagle on the pulpit, 
 and enriched the rows of brightly dressed, expectant 
 ladies. George Brandon declined the offer of an usher 
 to lead him up the aisle, and seated himself in one of the 
 rear pews. 
 
 Presently the quiet rustle and bustle of people pass- 
 ing to their seats entirely ceased; the organist began a 
 more solemn and commanding strain, the hush of the 
 congregation but half disguised the lurking excitement. 
 The clergyman in his robes appeared in the chancel; 
 Graham Rappallo, tall, dark, unsmiling, stepped from 
 the vestry room; the wedding march pealed forth; and 
 the congregation rose. 
 
 George, standing next to the aisle, turned his head. 
 The procession of ushers slowly passed, disclosing the 
 bride and her father. The veil was drawn back from her 
 face; George met her eyes. There was a sudden startled 
 rush of color to her cheeks, which had been pale. Then, 
 clinging to her father's arm, and gazing straight down 
 the long aisle at the end of which stood the man who was 
 to be her husband, she passed, the filmy lace of her veil 
 brushing George's sleeve.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A VERY WELL-BEHAVED YOUNG MAN 
 
 ON the broad veranda overlooking the sea Rosamond 
 and her husband received the wedding guests. 
 George Brandon, moving slowly with the stream, had 
 glimpses of the pair as they stood with their backs against 
 the screen of clematis; more than ever before were his 
 eyes allured by Rosamond's face. She was no longer 
 pale; the radiance of an attained happiness gave bril- 
 liancy to her color and to her glance. She was a fair 
 creature to George the very personification of all that 
 was bright, sunny, and kind, her tall stateliness sur- 
 mounted by a face of no handsome coldness, but eager 
 and engaging. The husband at her side stood with a 
 martial rigor, accepting congratulations rather than 
 offering himself to them with enthusiasm; to George it 
 was a matter of amazement that he could exhibit so 
 little emotion; it caused George to feel guiltily conscious 
 of his own lack of self-control. 
 
 "Oh, Dr. Brandon!" said a soft voice, and George 
 turned to behold Ruth, Rosamond's younger sister, 
 smiling and eager as the bride. He had always thought 
 of Ruth as a mere child, but she had now, to fill the 
 place of maid of honor, blossomed forth as a young 
 lady, to her obvious delight. "You aren't noticing 
 your grown-up little friend, Dr. Brandon," she said, 
 giving him her hand. 
 
 [ 24 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "So I was n't," he admitted. "And I'm very glad to 
 have my attention called to her. What a pretty hat!" 
 
 "Oh, do you think so! " She exhibited both sides and 
 the back of it, flattered by such interest. "Rosamond 
 picked it out for me. You don't know what a thing it is 
 to have your first feather." She cast a complacent up- 
 ward eye at the soft blue plume that overhung her hat- 
 brim. "Have you just come home, Dr. Brandon?" 
 
 "Only this morning." 
 
 "Is South America very exciting, full of snakes and 
 jungles and jaguars?" 
 
 "Well, yes, in some places." 
 
 "We were afraid you might be lost, or hurt, or some- 
 thing." 
 
 "Really? Why?" 
 
 Ruth blushed suddenly, and then felt she had be- 
 trayed herself. She floundered. "Not hearing from you 
 Rosamond, at least she spoke of it at first only 
 at first, that is; of course, after a while she heard from 
 your sister that you had written and were all right." 
 
 "Was Rosamond expecting to hear from me?" He 
 felt it was hardly a fair question, but a morbid desire 
 pressed him on. 
 
 " Yes, I think so. At least " Ruth paused, evidently 
 in doubt as to how much she ought to disclose, and then 
 yielded to the frankness of youth. "I know this much; 
 when she went up to Canada on a visit, she told me to 
 be sure to forward to her at once any letters from South 
 America. You know " Ruth shyly looked at him 
 and then betrayed her own state of mind by exclaiming, 
 "Oh, why did n't you write?" 
 [ 25 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 George shook hands with her, and subsided again into 
 the current that was moving towards the bride and 
 groom. 
 
 What a capacity he had for blundering! With his 
 quick imagination, which was always friendly to his 
 own hopes and interests, he reconstructed the processes 
 of Rosamond's mind. She had been fascinated by Rap- 
 pallo and yet perhaps waited wistfully for the word that 
 might brace her soul in its wavering and weakness. And 
 he had not sent it to her aid! So at last the warrior's 
 compulsion had overridden the sound protest of her 
 heart and brain; she had surrendered to the dominion 
 of eye and blood. The blush that had streamed over her 
 face when she had passed George in the church was cor- 
 roborative evidence. George was able even to feel pity 
 for her in what must have been the catastrophe of dis- 
 covering him in the congregation. He felt that now, in 
 approaching her and her husband for the congratula- 
 tory word, he was preparing for her an ordeal though 
 to be sure, she would now have herself in hand. 
 
 His inferences afforded him a measure of melancholy 
 gratification, and exalted him spiritually above the low 
 level of Steve Foster, whom he had observed drinking the 
 sparkling waters of Lethe in the white marquee which 
 adorned an edge of the lawn. Small tables were set out 
 on the grass, and the guests were disposing themselves 
 at these, but Foster and several other young men pre- 
 ferred to make their libations at the shrine itself. George, 
 catching glimpses now of these young men, and now of 
 the smiling bride and her self-contained husband, felt 
 that the matter was too tragic for champagne. 
 [ 26 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 He was progressing more rapidly, the bride and groom 
 seemed to be dealing with their guests at an accelerated 
 speed. A panic suddenly overcame him; he had nothing 
 to say, and he must not betray any emotion! For his 
 own sake, for Rosamond's. 
 
 He smoothed down his coat, gave a nervous twist to 
 his mustache and then Rosamond was before him. 
 
 " George! " she cried, and she did not release his hand. 
 " I could n't believe it was you ! When did you get home? 
 Were n't you nice to come ! Oh, I 'm crazy to know all 
 about it!" 
 
 She was keeping a stiff enough upper lip. For all his 
 resolve, it was more than he could do; his own lip 
 twitched in an uncontrollable tremor. He found himself 
 passing on, speechless, to Rosamond's husband. There 
 was staunchness in Rappallo's grasp of his hand, there 
 was honesty and kindliness in the look of Rappallo's 
 gray eyes, but they did n't help; George failed to achieve 
 utterance, and with a sensation of having crowned a 
 career of failure with an episode of shame, he fled to the 
 white marquee. Instead, at the last moment, of hav- 
 ing made her feel sorry for herself, he had merely made 
 her feel sorry for him. His sense of significance which 
 had been so exalting had vanished, and with it his dig- 
 nified superiority to the ministrations of champagne. 
 Steve Foster filled a glass for him and one for himself, 
 performing the operation with a noticeable gravity; 
 with an even greater gravity he touched his glass to 
 George's. 
 
 "Her health," he said, and after tossing off the bumper 
 he was sufficiently maudlin to add, "God bless her!" 
 [ 27 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 The spectacle of this deranged sentimentalist enabled 
 George to right himself. "You're laying a foundation 
 for seasickness," he observed. 
 
 " My dear old fuss-budget, if you '11 only lace yourself 
 well with champagne, you won't know what seasickness 
 is," declared Foster cheerfully. 
 
 "That may be true if the voyage is short enough. 
 But you're going on a cattle steamer. Besides, you've 
 got to remember that you 're to take me to that book- 
 ing-agent when we get back to Boston this after- 
 noon." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right. He's a friend of mine; he'll do 
 anything I say." 
 
 "If we start now, we can get -train ahead of this 
 crowd. That will give me plenty of time to see the agent, 
 do my packing, and make all my arrangements." 
 
 "Leave now!" Foster was aghast at the idea. "My 
 dear fellow, I Ve just begun to enjoy myself. So far " 
 he remembered to add " as it 's possible to enjoy one 's 
 self on an essentially sad occasion. Come, George, join 
 me and let us drown our woes in wine." 
 
 George felt that his responsibility for Foster had al- 
 ready begun. "Look here, Steve," he said pleadingly, 
 "if I'm to go with you to-morrow, I have little enough 
 time to make all my arrangements. Won't you give up 
 an hour of this for the sake of helping me get started 
 right as long as I'm going over with you?" 
 
 An appeal to Foster's generosity always had him at 
 a disadvantage. 
 
 " All right," he said tractably. " Only let 's have one 
 more drink before we start." 
 
 [ 28 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Just one." 
 
 Again with solemnity Foster filled the glasses. "To 
 you know whom," he said, and he drank with the air of 
 one performing an act of reverence. Then he suffered 
 George to lead him away from the white marquee; they 
 passed along the edge of the lawn on which now sat jolly 
 little luncheon parties, and approached the house just 
 as Rosamond and her husband were descending the 
 veranda steps. The sun shone on the ringlets of Rosa- 
 mond's hair, translating its dark brown hue to a soft 
 bronze; as she passed she glanced at Foster and at 
 George with a questioning look and smile. George inter- 
 preted it: "I am so happy to-day; please won't you be 
 happy too?" v 
 
 In the train to Boston, Foster slumbered and left 
 George free to look out of the window and dream. 
 That sunlight on her hair bringing out the red gold 
 in it and, when one was close enough to see, revealing 
 a myriad little rainbow lights he had first noticed it 
 one afternoon when they sat together in a canoe far up 
 the Charles River. It was the afternoon when he had 
 first told her that he loved her. Never, so long as he 
 lived, could he escape from the allurement of her eyes 
 and of those soft and brilliant lights in her hair. 
 
 As the train entered the North Station, Foster awoke 
 and bewailed his frightful thirst. George would not 
 permit him to allay it until after the business with the 
 agent on Atlantic Avenue had been transacted. This 
 having been accomplished and George having parted 
 with ten dollars, for the privilege of feeding and watering 
 cattle for the next twelve days, he hailed a eab, and 
 [ 29 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 yielding to Foster's entreaties and demands, deposited 
 him at his club. 
 
 He himself continued on to his lodgings, where he soon 
 had the incurious Walter deeply involved in his prepa- 
 rations for departure. ,
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A RESCUE AT SEA 
 
 THE Catalonia was to sail at nine o'clock in the 
 morning; according to instructions George pre- 
 sented himself on the dock at half-past six. Neither 
 Foster nor the cattle had yet appeared; two green- 
 looking Irishmen returning for a visit to the old coun- 
 try and two recent graduates from Dartmouth College 
 were waiting to present credentials similar to his own. 
 The cattle foreman, a big, red-faced, red-haired man, 
 with small eyes and a brutal mouth, led them all to a 
 room with bunks built on each side and a table and 
 benches in the middle. He said, "Stow your duds, and 
 don't spend no time in prinking." 
 
 Presently the cattle came trampling aboard, bawling, 
 bellowing, darkening the already dark interior, filling 
 the place with the rancid odor of over-heated, steaming 
 animals. When they had been made fast to their stan- 
 chions and watered, it was within ten minutes of the 
 time of sailing, and Steve Foster had not yet appeared. 
 George felt angry with him and at the same time re- 
 lieved. The expedition was a foolish one, and it was 
 rather fortunate that Steve had escaped it by getting 
 drunk. George at once decided not to persevere in an 
 adventure which could only be unprofitable and on 
 which he had embarked mainly through amiable will- 
 ingness to be of service to a disconsolate and incom- 
 [ 31 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 petent friend. He therefore slipped into the bunk- 
 room, hastily gathered up his clothes and crammed 
 them into his bag, put on his hat, and started for the 
 gangway. 
 
 The foreman was guarding it and confronted him. 
 "You're a quitter, are you?" said the foreman. "Well, 
 nobody quits that once gets aboard." 
 
 "I've changed my mind about sailing," replied 
 George. "Call it quitting if you like." 
 
 He endeavored to push by the foreman. The next 
 instant the impact of a powerful fist on the point of his 
 jaw stretched him senseless. 
 
 The two Dartmouth graduates who had been watch- 
 ing the proceedings ran forward. The foreman, smoking 
 his pipe, regarded them with amusement. 
 
 "Haul him away and bring him to," he ordered. "And 
 don't no more of you get rambunctious." 
 
 One of the men brought a bucket of water while the 
 other fanned George's face with his hat. The foreman 
 smoked unconcernedly during the process of revival. 
 After a few moments George regained a dazed conscious- 
 ness and was led into the bunkroom. He sat on the edge 
 of his berth holding his aching head in his hands, and 
 awoke by degrees to an understanding of his injury. He 
 deliberated upon it, and the more he deliberated the 
 more intolerable it seemed; he got to his feet, and the 
 fact that he felt weak and unsteady on them only in- 
 flamed his resolution. The quality of it must have shown 
 in his face, for one of the young men, Sidney Hanford 
 by name, plucked him by the arm and said anxiously, 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 [ 32 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I'm going ashore," said George, "and if that fellow 
 tries to stop me, I'll kill him." 
 
 "You can't go ashore," explained Hanford. "We're 
 moving." 
 
 It was true; the ship had cast off while George was 
 lying unconscious, and now the throb of her engines 
 communicated itself to his dulled senses. 
 
 He seated himself again on the edge of his bunk and 
 again took his head in his hands. " You 'd better lie down 
 for a while," advised Cole, the other Dartmouth man. 
 "There! They're opening up the hatches, and you'll 
 get some fresh air and soon you can go out on deck. 
 You'd better lie quiet for a while." 
 
 "Thanks, I will. Don't bother with me; I shall be 
 all right soon." 
 
 He remained with his hands pressed against his head, 
 as if trying to press back into coherence thoughts 
 which had been jarred loose, and his companions 
 departed to breathe the outer air. 
 
 Resentment and a desire for revenge assumed such 
 sway over George's mind that at first his calamitous 
 situation did not trouble him. He was without weapons, 
 he weighed at least fifty pounds less than the foreman, 
 but so savage was his wrath that he felt if he ever nursed 
 his strength back he could kill the bully with his bare 
 hands. 
 
 The fresh air blowing through the cabin soon drew 
 George up on the lower starboard deck. Then, as he saw 
 the green islands of the harbor receding and Bostor. 
 Light pricking up out of the blue distance ahead, with 
 nothing beyond it but open sea, his original desire to 
 [ 33 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 escape from an absurd predicament thrust other thoughts 
 aside even the lust for revenge. 
 
 The sea was smooth; he was a good swimmer. Even 
 if he could not make the nearest shore, he could keep 
 afloat in that warm water indefinitely that is, until 
 one of the numerous passing boats should pick him up. 
 He looked over the rail; it was only a few feet above 
 the water, and the steamer was not moving rapidly. No 
 one was looking at him; the foreman was not visible; the 
 other hands were apparently all out on the port deck. 
 
 He took off his shoes and trousers and climbed up on 
 the rail. There he balanced himself a moment, clinging 
 to a stanchion and casting a backward glance. No one 
 saw him. He took a long breath and dived far out. 
 
 Under water he swam as far as he could. When he 
 came up and shook the brine from his eyes, he saw the 
 stern of the steamer towering up not more than a hun- 
 dred feet away; the next instant with an amazing sud- 
 denness, a figure came flying out from the upper deck 
 and plunged into the water not far off. 
 
 The cry, "Man overboard!" was shouted from one 
 to another, people ran about the decks and peered down; 
 in a moment some sailors were rapidly getting a boat 
 ready for lowering. Escape for George was now quite 
 impossible, and he accepted rescue with resignation, 
 which changed to stupefaction and disgust when he saw 
 that the face of the approaching swimmer was, for him, 
 the most unwelcome face in all the world. 
 
 "Hello," he said, trying to speak as casually as if they 
 were meeting on Boston Common. "How are you, 
 Rappallo?" 
 
 [ 34 ]
 
 The sun had been in Graham Rappallo's eyes; he stood 
 up to tread water and gaze at this object of his heroism 
 who greeted him thus familiarly. 
 
 "Hello, Brandon," he said cheerfully, "I never 
 dreamed it was you." 
 
 "It certainly is quite a shock to find it's you," replied 
 George. 
 
 "What the devil are you up to? You don't look as if 
 you were trying to drown yourself." 
 
 "Nothing was further from my mind; I was simply 
 trying to escape from the cattle deck. Steve Foster 
 talked me into going over with him as a cattle man, and 
 then failed to show up. I decided I did n't care to go 
 alone; that 's all. I can make the shore all right, if they '11 
 only let me." 
 
 "I'm afraid they won't," said Rappallo; he looked 
 back at the ship's boat, which was now in the water. 
 "They'll take you aboard in spite of yourself. But you 
 must come up into the cabin; I'll fix things with the 
 purser." 
 
 "I'd rather not, thank you." George was silent a 
 moment. "If you just would n't tell Rosamond it was 
 me, it would be decent of you; I'd be everlastingly 
 obliged." 
 
 "I'll not tell her," Rappallo promised. He felt sorry 
 for George, and uncomfortable himself at having un- 
 wittingly imposed this humiliation on him. He thrashed 
 about in the water in an effort not to seem too studious 
 of the other's plight. George floated in a resigned si- 
 lence and watched the boat draw near. He could faintly 
 see the faces of the people on board the ship, which had 
 [ 35 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 stopped some distance off. He knew that among them, 
 anxiously gazing, was Rosamond, and even at this dis- 
 tance he hardly dared to raise his eyes. 
 
 Rappallo paddled close. "If you 're going to be abroad 
 for a while," he said, "our address is Barings'. We might 
 get together some time." 
 
 "Thanks," said George. "But I expect I shall want 
 to take the first steamer back and punch Steve Foster's 
 head." 
 
 A few moments more and he was hauled into the 
 ship's boat, where he sat huddled in the stern, not lift- 
 ing up his eyes lest he should be recognized by Rosa- 
 mond. He had a curious shame of having her see him 
 thus brought back to captivity; he felt that he could 
 trust her husband not to betray him. Because of this 
 desire to shield himself from her observation, his appear- 
 ance in the boat was more hang-dog than he would have 
 had it. And when he was deposited on the cattle deck, 
 the foreman, his big arms crossed upon his chest, stood 
 there surveying him with a triumphant sneer. 
 
 "You are a quitter, you are!" said the foreman.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE RESCUER 
 
 IF to his fellow cabin passengers Graham Rappallo 
 had become within an hour of sailing an object of 
 interest and admiration, in the eyes of his wife he had 
 been transfigured. From the day of her engagement to 
 him up to the moment when he had leaped overboard, 
 she had been frightened by doubts whether she really 
 loved him enough; moments of distrust had alternated 
 with moments of enthusiasm. The appearance of George 
 Brandon at the wedding had disconcerted her, had com- 
 pelled her imagination to dwell on the often considered 
 vision which at the same instant was so poignantly 
 in George's mind suppose she were standing before 
 the altar with George at her side instead of Graham ! 
 Even while the words of the marriage service were being 
 read, she felt an agitating uncertainty whether in that 
 moment, if she had the power, she would not exercise 
 it to cause those two men to change places. George 
 charmed her and pleased her; the unexpected glimpse of 
 him as she moved up the aisle had given her a start of 
 true romance, so that when she raised her eyes to meet 
 those of the man who was to be her husband, she did not 
 feel the anticipated thrill. The great event of her life 
 she had passed through, giving it but a perfunctory at- 
 tention, her mind in a haze of troubled and futile ques- 
 tioning and when she realized that she had left the 
 1 37 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 church and was seated in the carriage beside her hus- 
 band she had cried out, "Oh, Graham, I want to 
 go back and be married all over again!" And he had 
 interpreted that as an expression of her rapturous 
 contentment. 
 
 What she had needed was a demonstration on which 
 to build anew her failing faith faith in him and in 
 herself. The morning after her marriage had providen- 
 tially supplied it. She had been walking with him on the 
 deck when he had suddenly broken from her, cried, 
 "Man overboard!" and dived to the rescue clearing 
 the rail with a magnificent bound and shooting down 
 with an arrowy flight while she stood frightened and 
 speechless. Then when she saw his head emerge, saw 
 him start with an overhand stroke for the distant swim- 
 mer, comprehension of his act thrilled her through and 
 through with pride and love. He had done this deed of 
 daring and had not been hurt; she leaned on the rail 
 and watched the apparent rescue with a blissful compla- 
 cency. She had known her husband was brave; to have 
 him proved heroic the day after their marriage and in 
 the sight of all filled her to overflowing with the emotion 
 which she must cherish for her lord. 
 
 "There, he's got him! How splendid of your hus- 
 band ! " exclaimed Mrs. George Vasmer. 
 
 "What a frightfully high dive it was!" mused Mrs. 
 Vasmer's daughter Dorothy. 
 
 They addressed their comments to Rosamond, for 
 
 they had made their way as soon as possible after the 
 
 sensational happening to her side. And for the first 
 
 time she was glad that they were on board; hitherto, 
 
 [ 38 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 although Dorothy was one of her best friends, she had 
 been disposed to resent their presence. In taking pas- 
 sage on a slow cattle steamer she and Graham had 
 counted rather confidently on evading the observation 
 and society of their acquaintances. It had seemed a 
 strange mischance to find Mrs. Vasmer, with her opu- 
 lent purse and aristocratic tastes, on such a boat a 
 mischance due to the fact that she was susceptible to 
 seasickness and had heard that the stability of the 
 Catalonia gave comfort to the qualmish. Now Rosa- 
 mond was grateful to the mischance rejoiced that 
 Dorothy was on board to report Graham's heroism and 
 spread the fame of it. 
 
 Dorothy and her mother speculated with Rosamond 
 as to the nature of the poor wretch now in process of 
 rescue, and the cause of his predicament. Mrs. Vasmer 
 inclined to the belief that he was some unfortunate who 
 had undertaken to kill himself; her daughter pointed 
 out that he had been keeping afloat and suggested that 
 he might be a stoker who had been temporarily crazed 
 by the heat. In support of this theory she called atten- 
 tion to the man's scanty attire. Rosamond thought that 
 probably he was one of the sailors who had fallen over- 
 board by accident. She was not much concerned with 
 his personality, and as the ship's boat drew alongside, 
 she cast only a compassionate glance down at the half- 
 clad, bowed-over wretch who sat in the stern. Her hus- 
 band, with his sleek and glistening black head, his cling- 
 ing pink shirt and soggy white flannel trousers, had all 
 her eyes. 
 
 Anyway, it was the part of modesty not to look too 
 [ 39 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 closely while the human derelict as the ladies agreed 
 in picturing him scrambled out of the boat upon the 
 lower deck. There was no reason, however, for with- 
 drawing their eyes when Graham Rappallo was hoisted 
 into nearer view. There were smiles for him and a faint 
 cheer, and a young woman who wore glasses leveled a 
 camera at him with great deliberation and took his pic- 
 ture while he was still in the small boat and powerless 
 to protect himself. 
 
 He would not wait even for a word or a glance from 
 his wife, but ran to his stateroom, where she followed 
 as rapidly as possible and conducted herself in a manner 
 which he found somewhat embarrassing but exceedingly 
 gratifying. 
 
 "Oh, Graham, I never knew before how much I love 
 you!" she exclaimed when in dry clothes once more he 
 stood before the mirror brushing his glossy black hair. 
 She sat on the sofa and looked up at him wistfully. 
 
 "Did n't you, Rosamond? " he said, shooting down at 
 her an amused and happy glance. "That 's worth a duck- 
 ing any time." 
 
 "If anything had happened to you when you took that 
 reckless dive, I could never have borne it, Graham; I 
 should have wanted to jump overboard too. A week 
 ago I could n't have felt that way." 
 
 "Ah," he said, suddenly turning and seizing her, "you 
 are going to love me, you are, you are!" 
 
 It was one of those instant bursts of passion that 
 
 pleased and scared her because they were as yet so novel. 
 
 How they would affect her when she became more used 
 
 to them she had not hitherto been able to foretell, but 
 
 [ 40 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 now she knew. She would never be too scared by them 
 any more. 
 
 "Who was the man, Graham?" she asked presently. 
 "Was he trying to drown himself?" 
 
 "Oh, not at all. He was a poor devil of a cattle hand 
 who had suddenly got homesick and decided to swim 
 ashore; that was all. He might have made it; it seemed 
 almost a pity to bring him back when he wanted to go 
 home." 
 
 "Some time we must go down together and see him 
 and try to do something for him," said Rosamond. 
 
 "No, don't you think of it," exclaimed her husband. 
 "He'd hate that. The kindest thing we can do for him 
 is to let him alone. He does n't want to feel that he 's an 
 object of pity; he's morbid enough as it is." 
 
 "Of course a man does n't like to be pitied by a man," 
 said Rosamond. "But by a nice, compassionate, sym- 
 pathetic woman " 
 
 "Don't you do it!" cried Graham, laughing. "No, 
 dear, honestly I know he'd much rather be let alone." 
 
 He said it with such conviction that Rosamond was 
 impressed and somewhat reluctantly abandoned the 
 idea which had popped into her head the idea of being 
 a ministering angel and thus the fit and worthy comple- 
 ment of her hero husband. 
 
 It was a luxury to find him regarded as that by every 
 one on board, to note the open admiration behind the 
 young woman photographer's glasses, the beaming ap- 
 proval which was in Mrs. Vasmer's eyes, the venerating 
 glow which was in her daughter Dorothy's. These were 
 manifestations which were most immediately and agree- 
 [ 41 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ably apparent to a woman. And Rosamond valued 
 almost as much the captain's remark to her "Your 
 husband is prompt, Mrs. Rappallo prompt. I under- 
 stand he has been a soldier." 
 
 This understanding, which somehow crept about the 
 ship, enhanced the glamour that was enveloping Graham. 
 Rosamond would have been glad to rehearse to some of 
 the eager ladies anecdotes of her husband's exploits 
 under fire. Unfortunately he had never told her much 
 about these experiences. "He does n't like to talk about 
 them too horrible," she said to Dorothy Vasmer; 
 and Dorothy sighed and felt that her friend's husband 
 possessed inexhaustible depths of romance. 
 
 Graham himself ascribed the interest of the passen- 
 gers in him to the fact that he was a bridegroom. He sat 
 in his steamer chair and read "The Napoleonic Wars." 
 He said to Rosamond that they must visit some of the 
 great battlefields Wagram and Lodi and Waterloo; 
 it would be interesting to study them. 
 
 "I know about Waterloo," said Rosamond eagerly. 
 "It was the sunken road at Ohain that lost the battle 
 for the French, when their cavalry charged over the 
 bluff and piled up in the ravine." 
 
 "That was the detail that Victor Hugo seized on," 
 replied Graham. "It appealed to his imagination, and 
 he made the battle turn on it. When we go over the bat- 
 tlefield, I '11 show you how little that episode actually 
 had to do with the result." 
 
 He fixed his eyes again upon his book, continuing, 
 however, to caress her hand under the steamer rug. 
 She did not resume her reading of her novel; she was 
 [ 42 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 more content to lie back and watch her husband and 
 enjoy the sensation of his caress. Looking at him, she 
 meditated upon all that he knew of which she was igno- 
 rant, all the experiences that he had been through which 
 she had never shared, and it seemed to her strange and 
 wonderful that all this knowledge and experience had 
 suddenly been incorporated into her own life. She felt 
 that now, insensibly, it was part of her, and the thought 
 gave her a proud happiness. She looked at her husband 
 and pictured him in his khaki uniform, leading a charge 
 up a bare hillside under a tropic sun, pointing forward 
 with his saber while he looked back to urge on his men 
 the posture was transferred to her mind from some 
 old picture-book of her more tender years. It seemed 
 incredible that this quiet figure by her side should have 
 moved amidst the roar of cannon and the storm of 
 bullets, should have seen men fal| dead and dying round 
 him while he himself pressed on, intrepid, into the thick- 
 est of the carnage, should perhaps not only have seen 
 violent death but dealt it no, no, that was a question 
 that she would never ask, that was a thing which she 
 wished never to know. Yet the passing thought imparted 
 to Graham an even more enthralling interest. She felt 
 as she looked at him that the more she watched him, 
 thought about him, studied him, the more completely 
 did he fill her conception of all that a man should be. 
 His dark smooth head, and the deep brown of his face, 
 his long eyelashes and crisp black mustache, his straight 
 nose and small flat ears and finely moulded mouth and 
 chin all pleased her eyes; she felt, too, the character 
 in the slim strong hand that was caressing hers. 
 [ 43 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 But it was not till the next day that she knew really 
 how much she loved him. For the next day there was 
 a storm, and in spite of the stability of the Catalonia he 
 was unheroically seasick. As he lay beside her in his 
 steamer chair, with the color gone from his face and "The 
 Napoleonic Wars" unopened in his lap, she leaned to 
 him and said, 
 
 "Poor dear! I feel as if you were my little sick boy! 
 Oh, how I want to do things for you!"
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE RESCUED 
 
 WITH Graham Rappallo, seasickness was an 
 acute but passing phase; after twenty-four 
 hours of its chastening, he was once more pacing the 
 deck with Rosamond, feeling weak and spiritualized. 
 The next day, feeling no longer weak and no longer 
 spiritualized, he abandoned his bride after luncheon and 
 repaired to the smoking-room. Rosamond sought out 
 Dorothy Vasmer and was promenading the deck with 
 her when Dorothy said, "Let's go below and see the 
 cattle." 
 
 "All right," agreed Rosamond. "Perhaps we shall 
 see the man that jumped overboard." 
 
 "And you can tell him you're the wife of the man 
 who saved him," suggested Dorothy. "Won't it be 
 exciting!" 
 
 They descended to the cattle deck and stood for a 
 moment looking about them uncertainly. Across the 
 doors which led to the cattle stalls was the sign, "No 
 Admittance"; but a feminine instinct told the two young 
 ladies that if they only lingered long enough, some oblig- 
 ing man would take on himself the responsibility for 
 their disregarding the prohibition. In similar instances, 
 when they had shown both curiosity and patience, such 
 a solution had never failed them ; and they glanced hope- 
 fully, indeed, seductively, at the two young cattle men 
 I 45 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 who were leaning against the rail on the starboard deck. 
 The young men were at the moment engaged in admin- 
 istering courage to each other a fact of which the two 
 young ladies were femininely aware and which led them 
 to assume a still more uncertain, helpless, bewildered, and 
 lost appearance. Thereupon the two young men simul- 
 taneously knocked the dottle from their pipes and 
 pocketed them, and with an air as if they had tightened 
 up their belts, buttoned up their coats, and straightened 
 their neckties, none of which articles did they wear, 
 they advanced to do their chivalrous devoir. 
 
 "We were so anxious to see the cattle." The pleasant 
 look in Rosamond's hazel eyes and the beguiling tone 
 of her voice came spontaneously enough, for they were 
 a wholesome, pleasant-looking pair of young men. " But 
 that sign is so formidable. Does it really mean what it 
 says?" 
 
 "This is the first chance we've had to find out," said 
 one of the men recklessly. "If you really want to look 
 in, we 'd be glad to show you round. But the place is n't 
 much to see, and it smells like a cow barn, only more 
 so." 
 
 "Oh, we don't mind that." It was Dorothy who spoke 
 and she engaged the other youth with eyes as friendly 
 as Rosamond's, but gray. "We thought we'd come 
 down and look for some excitement." 
 
 " We can't furnish much, but you 're welcome to what 
 we have." He threw the doors open and stood aside for 
 them to enter. 
 
 They found themselves in a very dimly-lighted aisle 
 between rows and rows of cattle tethered to iron stan- 
 l 46 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 chions and with hind quarters braced dismally to 
 withstand the abhorrent reeling of this abominable and 
 strange universe. A mournful bellowing proceeded from 
 some individuals, the clank of iron chains from others; 
 the closed portholes were unclean; the reek was, indeed, 
 as the young man had said, that of a cow barn, only 
 more so. But Dorothy walked on, looking to right and 
 left with interest, and Rosamond followed her. 
 
 "Do they keep you very busy?" Dorothy asked her 
 guide. 
 
 "Not very. We have to water them and feed them, 
 but we have a good deal of time on our hands. The worst 
 of it is the food which is pretty bad." 
 
 "Is this your first trip as a cattle man?" 
 
 "First and last. We've just graduated from Dart- 
 mouth, and we're going over to have a vacation in 
 Europe." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Dorothy. Exclusively a Back Bay product 
 she felt that, although Dartmouth was not Harvard, it 
 was still a college, and that it was socially possible to be 
 cordial to one of its graduates. Indeed, even if he had n't 
 been a college graduate at all, if he had been an utter 
 barbarian, this young man whom she addressed must 
 have appealed to her as an attractive and agreeable 
 person. He was very good-looking, with his light curly 
 hair and level blue eyes, his fair skin and tall trim fig- 
 ure; he looked like an athlete, and he had the air of one 
 gay, good-humored, readily responsive. Dorothy had 
 been quite taken at once by the sound of his voice. 
 
 So she told the young man her name and Rosamond's. 
 She was rewarded by learning that he was Sidney Han- 
 [ 47 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ford and that his stocky, dark-haired companion was 
 Edward Cole. 
 
 "You're not the only cattle men on board, are you?" 
 
 "Oh, no, there are three others. They're over on the 
 other side now watering the stock. We've just finished 
 with ours." 
 
 Dorothy's curiosity could no longer be patient. "It 
 was n't one of you that fell overboard, was it?" 
 
 "No," said Hanford. "That was another fellow 
 mighty good fellow, too. He did n't fall overboard, he 
 jumped. He wanted to get ashore; he did n't want to 
 make the trip, because the friend who was going with 
 him failed him." 
 
 "It was Mrs. Rappallo's husband who jumped after 
 him," announced Dorothy. "Do point him out to us, 
 if you see him." 
 
 "But don't tell him who we are," interposed Rosa- 
 mond, coming forward. "I suppose he's sensitive about 
 the thing, and I should hate to make him uncomfortable." 
 
 The next moment at a turn in the passage, she en- 
 countered George Brandon face to face. He had an 
 empty pail in each hand, his shirt was open across his 
 chest, his hair was unkempt, and his face unshaven. 
 In the dim light he and Rosamond peered at each other 
 for a moment. 
 
 "George!" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes; you've trailed me to my lair." He looked at 
 her with a deprecating, whimsical smile. 
 
 "Do tell me what are you doing here?" 
 
 "Looking after the cattle." 
 
 L "Yes, but how did you come to do such a thing?" 
 [ 48 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 They drew away from the others, who dropped back. 
 
 "Another friend of yours decided that he needed a 
 sea change and some strenuous work and wanted com- 
 pany. But evidently he thought better of it overnight; 
 anyway, he failed to appear before the ship sailed." 
 
 "Then it was you that why did n't Graham tell 
 me?" 
 
 "Because I asked him not to." George flushed. "I 
 did n't want you to know that I had cut such a pitiable 
 and ridiculous figure." 
 
 "I'm sorry you felt that way. You know, you could 
 never be either pitiable or ridiculous to me." 
 
 "I am to myself, anyway. I feel as if, though I'm 
 thirty years of age, I had acted like a kid of sixteen." 
 
 "I it's hard for the person who's responsible to 
 say anything comforting." She looked at him with soft 
 eyes, and he wished more than ever that if those were 
 the eyes of friendship he could know what it was to look 
 into them when they w T ere the eyes of love. She was 
 thinking at the moment that it was his very juvenility 
 which had always made him seem appealing to her, 
 which at times had perilously moved her, and which 
 was a rather nice trait in him even now. "Did n't you 
 want very much to get ashore? " 
 
 " Very much. I felt that I knew a hundred more agree- 
 able ways of killing time." 
 
 "But that is n't all that you think of." 
 
 "It's too early for me to tell just what I do think of. 
 I have n't even decided whether to take the first steamer 
 back or to roam round Europe for a while. I feel that 
 I have had about enough of chasing butterflies." 
 [ 49 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Oh, George! Did you mean that for me?" 
 
 He had not been unaware of the innuendo in his 
 speech, but now, at her hurt glance, he hastened to dis- 
 claim it. 
 
 "Of course," he said, "you were the butterfly that I 
 most wanted to add to my collection. But now that it 's 
 impossible, collecting others does n't any longer interest 
 me so much. Nothing interests me so much." 
 
 "You have a profession." 
 
 "How I wish I had devoted myself to it! To be a 
 doctor whom people wanted might have compensated 
 me a little for not being the man whom the girl wanted ! " 
 
 "You don't feel bitterly towards me, do you, George? " 
 
 " No, not towards you, you dear thing. I feel bitterly 
 towards myself for having been so inconsequent and 
 drifting. If only, when this happened, I'd had some 
 routine to occupy me, some definite work to hug a little 
 closer to my bosom, I should n't then be holding my poor 
 heart quite so tenderly." 
 
 "You don't look as if that was your occupation," 
 she said, with a smile. "Anyway, George, it's a nice 
 heart, and some day some nice girl will hold it tenderly 
 for you." 
 
 "I doubt it," replied George. "Girls don't do that sort 
 of thing without encouragement. No, I shall frivol round 
 Europe for a while, since I'm necessarily bound there; 
 and then I shall go back home and frivol round Boston 
 for a while, and then I shall be ready, I suppose, to go 
 after more butterflies." 
 
 "I see; you do reproach me. You feel that I did n't 
 play fair. But when a girl really falls in love, George, 
 [ 50 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 the fairest thing she can do is to go right ahead. There 
 can be no chance then for anybody else no matter 
 how kind and friendly her feeling for others may be." 
 
 "I realize all that. No, I wasn't reproaching you. 
 I am merely disgusted with myself for getting into my 
 present situation." 
 
 "It is rather nasty," Rosamond admitted, looking 
 about her. "But you can easily transfer your quarters 
 to the cabin. There is plenty of room. Do, please." 
 
 "It's very tempting," said George. "But I prefer to 
 fight with the beasts below here at Ephesus. Go back 
 to the cabin, Rosamond, and don't come down again." 
 
 She looked at him with surprise and question in her 
 eyes. "Why, don't you want to see me again, George 
 when we're crossing on the same boat?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But, George!" she said appealingly, after a moment 
 of silence. 
 
 " Good heavens, Rosamond ! " He turned away. 
 
 Rosamond flushed, looked at him with hurt and angry 
 eyes, and said in a low voice, "You are very unkind." 
 
 She turned and walked back to Dorothy; George, 
 leaning against the rail, did not even follow her with his 
 glance. 
 
 "Well, Dorothy," she said, "it's all very interesting, 
 is n't it? I think I '11 go up to my stateroom now. 
 Thanks, ever so much, for showing us round." 
 
 The two young men expressed their pleasure. Dorothy 
 
 knew that George Brandon had been one of Rosamond's 
 
 suitors, and gave her a look, interested and a little scared; 
 
 she saw that Rosamond was striving to conceal emotion. 
 
 I 51 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 On her way to her cabin, Rosamond passed the open 
 door of the smoking-room and glancing in saw her hus- 
 band playing cards, a pipe in his mouth and a glass on 
 the table before him. The sight incensed her. 
 
 Alone in her stateroom she closed the door, sat down 
 upon the couch, and gave herself up to unhappiness. 
 She thought of all those sweet and tender and passionate 
 visits from George Brandon in the past. She wondered 
 how and why she had held out against him. She felt 
 she could give her soul for one more tremulous woo- 
 ing appeal from him. She looked round the little cabin 
 and saw the traces of her husband with anger and revolt. 
 His toothbrush and shaving-brush, visible on the shelf 
 over the washstand, revolted her. Into what abomin- 
 able intimacy had she suddenly been transported! She 
 thought of the day when George had made a shy and 
 desperate effort to win her by putting an arm about her 
 and giving her a kiss; the indignation she had felt seemed 
 now too absurd. 
 
 "The door opened and her husband entered. "Why do 
 you come in without knocking?" she asked. "You take 
 me for granted already." 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry." He spoke contritely; he sat down 
 by her side and put his arm round her. 
 
 "Don't do that." She drew away from him. "I won- 
 der if I love you. Why did I marry you!" 
 
 He looked at her, he touched her hand entreatingly, 
 but she withdrew it and sat with averted face. 
 
 "What have I done, dearest?" he asked. "Is it just 
 that I did n't knock? I '11 be careful in future. But there 
 must be more than that." 
 
 [ 52 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I've just been seeing George Brandon. You did n't 
 tell me it was hie. I he really loves me. And I Ve 
 treated him so badly!" 
 
 "I can't believe that. He went away, he never wrote 
 to you, and you had promised him nothing." 
 
 "Oh, he wanted to have me miss him; I felt it, I knew 
 that was it. And I had always let him think there was 
 hope. I had always felt that some time I would marry 
 him. W T hy did you come in and spoil it? " 
 
 "For only one reason, of course." She again tried to 
 draw away from him, tried to push him away, but he 
 calmly took possession of her, held her arms close to her 
 sides in his embrace, and talked soothingly in her ear. 
 "Dear little girl, do you think George Brandon is the 
 only one who loves you?" 
 
 She was silent a moment. "I think you love me a 
 little, but not the way George Brandon does; not the 
 way I like to be loved. And oh, if you knew how I 
 always looked forward to his coming, how happy I al- 
 ways was when he was with me! I must have been mad 
 to marry you mad and wicked ! " 
 
 "You were neither mad nor wicked," said her hus- 
 band. "Haven't you looked forward a little to 
 seeing me? Have n't you been happy a little with 
 me? Don't think only of the times with Brandon. Think 
 of those with me." 
 
 "I was fascinated by you, I think; and perhaps I fas- 
 cinated you. But we never loved each other; we never 
 understood each other." 
 
 "If we don't now, we will learn. Anyway, I love you. 
 That you must know." 
 
 [ 53 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 " I 'm not sure. Already you leave me for the smoking- 
 room. You sit more interested in your ' Napoleonic Wars' 
 than in me. You don't try to give me a good time. You 
 talk to me about campaigns and battles and killing people 
 and I think that war is nothing but murder. Oh, I 
 was mad to marry you mad." 
 
 He held her more tightly and spoke softly in her ear. 
 "I suppose I had Othello's example in mind. I loved 
 you, I wanted you to love me and Desdemona, you 
 know, loved Othello for the dangers he had passed." 
 
 "Yes, that's why I first fancied I loved you," she said. 
 She was silent for a few moments; then, to his infinite 
 relief, she turned her eyes towards him. They were full 
 of questioning and uncertainty and a desire to be given 
 assurance and support. "Oh, Graham, I thought I 
 loved you. But seeing George Brandon has upset me 
 so ! I think I love each of you in different ways 
 and it seemed as if I loved George more in the right 
 way!" 
 
 "I don't believe it. Why, if you had married George 
 and then had suddenly come upon me, in just such cir- 
 cumstances, would n't you have been upset, too? " 
 
 "Yes, perhaps, but not so much." 
 
 "Oh, you can't tell about that. I love you, anyway, 
 Rosamond, more than George Brandon does; I know 
 I do, because no man could love you more. And there 's 
 just one thing I'm sure of about women; a woman in 
 time comes to love that man most who, as time shows, 
 loves her most. So if you don't love me now with all 
 your heart, I 'm still not discouraged. Only say you love 
 me a little." 
 
 [ 54 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 She hesitated, and then in a small, obedient voice 
 said, "Yes, I love you a little." 
 
 "And now kiss me." 
 
 "Just a little kiss." 
 
 She put up her lips, and suddenly he was crushing 
 her in his embrace and kissing her with a violence which, 
 if kisses alone could kindle love, must have started a 
 conflagration.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 PROGRESS OF A HONEYMOON 
 
 IN less than three months Graham Rappallo and his 
 wife each recognized, secretly, that in certain re- 
 spects their marriage was an unsatisfactory one. Re- 
 cognizing this individually, each was, first of all, anxious 
 to prevent the other from realizing it, and next deter- 
 mined not to let anybody else ever suspect it. Doubtless 
 through some such steadfast resolution many marriages 
 that at first pass for happy achieve happiness in the end. 
 Rosamond's pleasure was in life; Graham's pleasure 
 was in work. Such a difference need not inevitably 
 drive husband and wife apart; it may even sometimes 
 enable them to supplement and stimulate each other. 
 But for two persons of such contrasting traits a long 
 honeymoon is liable to work mischief, and Graham and 
 Rosamond had embarked upon a too extensive honey- 
 moon. They had plotted it all out carefully, or rather 
 Rosamond had done most of the planning, for she was 
 far more familiar with Europe than Graham was, and 
 she promised herself and him a special delight in show- 
 ing him the places that she loved and with which she 
 had associations. London to begin with; they could be 
 there for the last two weeks of the "season"; two weeks 
 then of loitering through Warwickshire and down the 
 Valley of the Wye; next, to Trouville for a glimpse of 
 the summer gayeties of the gayest people in the world; 
 [ 56 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 a month in Switzerland Lucerne, St. Moritz, and 
 Interlaken; and then Venice, of course, a honeymoon 
 in Europe that did not include Venice was unthinkable. 
 From Venice to Vienna, and then to Paris, where they 
 could have nearly a month before sailing for home. 
 
 Graham's first intention had been to absent himself 
 from his office and his military duties for he was Cap- 
 tain of the Troop, which was due to take part in the 
 autumn maneuvers of the militia for six weeks. But 
 Rosamond so plainly regarded that period as inadequate 
 and in making her plans showed so clearly the necessity 
 of their being gone for three or four months that he gave 
 a reckless acquiescence. "Don't let your sense of duty 
 cut short the best time that I shall ever have in' all my 
 life," she pleaded. It seemed to him so sweet that she 
 should think this, and not only think it but say it, that 
 he added two extra weeks to the total amount that she 
 asked for. 
 
 Yet even in those transports of triumphant love, he 
 had felt the disappointment that should never be the 
 after-fruit of whole-hearted sacrifice. He had felt it in 
 relinquishing to his partner the preparation of the most 
 interesting and important law case that had yet come 
 into his hands. Even more keenly did he feel it in ten- 
 dering his resignation as Captain of the Troop. It was 
 a particular gratification to him that the Troop declined 
 to accept it. Still, he should miss the maneuvers; and he 
 was much disturbed to find himself wishing that he could 
 get away from his honeymoon to go to them. 
 
 For a month he endured the exactions of his vaca- 
 tion pretty well. He even found pleasure in doing 
 [ 57 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 things that in the society of any one else would have 
 bored him unspeakably. To spend a perfectly good 
 morning driving aimlessly in the park, or passing at a 
 snail's pace through a picture gallery, or viewing relics 
 of early architecture seemed to him mere dawdling; and 
 he was impatient of those who dawdled and of those who 
 puttered. In going abroad, he maintained, each man 
 should seek the things that interested him; he himself 
 could find enough to study in the law courts and the 
 battlefields. Rosamond tried to convince him that 
 he could share her interest with some pleasure and 
 profit to himself, and he tried to admit that he was 
 persuaded. If the things at which she looked with 
 such incomprehensibly eager and delighted eyes were 
 stupid to him, her companionship was at least not 
 stupid. He did not tire of being with her. He felt 
 proud of her, and glad when he noticed with how much 
 more vivid interest the eyes of sight-seers rested on her 
 than on those classic attractions that were starred in 
 their Baedekers. 
 
 It was not until they crossed over to the Continent 
 that the honeymoon became a little cloying. They 
 knew nobody at Trouville; in England they had been 
 meeting many friends, and even when they were in 
 places where they knew no one, they had never felt that 
 they were intruders. In Trouville Graham very soon 
 felt this. He did not understand these people; the 
 place very clearly belonged to them, not to him; in fact, 
 he soon decided that he would not wish to have any 
 share in it. He was incurably provincial; the Latin 
 races, although they had furnished him with some mili- 
 [ 58 j
 
 I 
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 tary heroes, were decadent and inferior. These wealthy 
 and absurd Parisians at Trouville he suspected of de- 
 voting their lives to intrigue and immorality. Their 
 idle luxury was reprehensible beyond any to be found 
 at an American summer resort. Oddly enough, the 
 thing that prejudiced him most was an episode that 
 Rosamond thought charming in its simplicity. They 
 were sitting on the beach one morning; children were 
 playing near them; there were little parties of vivacious 
 young women and even more vivacious middle-aged 
 men strolling by. One of these parties sat down a few 
 yards away. There were two young women, two black- 
 bearded, dandified men; they all talked with a shrill, 
 rapid gayety, the women gesticulating prettily, the 
 men with eagerness. 
 
 "There are few things that it 's necessary to make such 
 a fuss about," Graham remarked to his wife. "That's 
 what I object to in these people their theatricality. 
 Their enthusiasm is always under forced draught." 
 
 "I like it," said Rosamond. "I don't like stodgy 
 people." 
 
 That morning for the first time she was acknowledg- 
 ing to herself that she would welcome a little temporary 
 relief .from her husband's society. Something about him 
 was jarring to her nerves. 
 
 One of the black-bearded men suddenly began to 
 take off his shoes. The young women clapped their 
 hands joyfully, the other man threw out his palms and 
 seemed to be pronouncing a facetious oration over his 
 friend. Off came the other shoe, off came both socks; 
 chattering exuberantly in response to the rallying cries 
 [ 59 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 of his companions, the sportive gentleman rolled his 
 trousers up above his knees, exposing a fragile white 
 ankle and a length of slender white calf; then he thrust 
 his socks into his shoes, tied the shoes together by their 
 lacings, and slung them across his shoulders. Taking up 
 his walking-stick, he rose and made his leisurely way 
 down to the edge of the water, where he strolled along, 
 letting the wavelets ripple up over his ankles. His 
 friends talked vivaciously among themselves and gave 
 him no further notice; he attracted no special attention 
 from the other people on the beach, and he did not seem 
 to desire it; he was apparently taking the simple pleas- 
 ure of a child in wading. But Graham glowered at him 
 and muttered an unfavorable opinion of the French- 
 man's "antics." 
 
 "I don't think he has any comic intention," said 
 Rosamond. " He's just being perfectly natural." 
 
 "I'm afraid I shall never appreciate the perfect na- 
 turalness of the French," replied Graham. 
 
 "I think it rather sweet of him to take such a childish 
 pleasure in dabbling his toes," Rosamond said. 
 
 "I would think better of him if he went in swimming 
 like a man," Graham answered. 
 
 Rosamond made no other comment; Graham, feeling 
 that he had somehow displeased her, was silent. They 
 watched the innocent object of their discussion; he 
 picked his way along in the curling ripples, prodding his 
 stick in the sand and turning over shells, which he 
 paused now and then to examine with acute interest; 
 some bathers were springing up and down farther out 
 in the water, and he stopped and gazed at them for a 
 I 60 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 while; he even waded out until his slim shanks were 
 quite immersed. At last he sat down by the edge of the 
 water, used his pocket handkerchief as a towel, and put 
 on his shoes. Then he returned briskly to his party and 
 began to urge upon them with enthusiasm the desir- 
 ability of following his example. 
 
 "I think," Rosamond said suddenly, "we will leave 
 Trouville to-morrow, and go up to Brussels. Then you 
 can inspect the field of Waterloo." 
 
 "But your friend, the Countess of Cassieres, who is 
 arriving day after to-morrow!" exclaimed Graham. 
 "You know you're engaged to dine with her on Satur- 
 day. Oh, no, we can't leave to-morrow." 
 
 "I will cancel the engagement," said Rosamond. "I 
 have decided that you would n't like the Countess; and 
 probably the Countess would not like you. She and I 
 can renew our friendship some time when I come to 
 France alone." 
 
 Graham caught her hand. "Rosamond," he cried, 
 anxiously, "don't say things like that." 
 
 She rose. "We have stayed in Trouville long enough. 
 A change of scene will be good for us. Let us leave this 
 afternoon." 
 
 He walked with her to the hotel, protesting. "I know 
 you like it here; I know you want to stay and see your 
 friend." 
 
 "No, I'm bored with the place. We'll go to Brussels 
 and you can show me battlefields." 
 
 She said it pleasantly even in the tone of expec- 
 tant happiness. Graham felt subdued and ashamed. 
 
 They finished their packing that morning; at lunch- 
 [ 61 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 eon Rosamond met Graham's solicitous efforts at con- 
 versation with cheerful eyes and a smile. She did not 
 have much to say herself, but Graham felt that he was 
 no longer in disfavor. His spirits brightened; he re- 
 solved to be more discreet in future and more tolerant, 
 he would try not to trample on her particular prejudices 
 and prepossessions. But he was glad to be leaving Trou- 
 ville. After all, he had so far done everything that his 
 wife wanted to do, gone just where she wanted to go; it 
 was proper now that for a short time his own tastes and 
 desires should be consulted. 
 
 They had the compartment in the train to themselves. 
 Rosamond sat during most of the trip looking out of 
 the window. Graham was suddenly shocked out of 
 his soothed complacency by seeing a tear start from 
 her eye. She brushed it away with her handkerchief. 
 Graham slipped his arm round her and said in distress, 
 "You're not crying, Rosamond? Tell me, dear, what 
 have I done?" 
 
 But she could tell him nothing. "I don't know why 
 I'm crying, Graham. I'm rather unhappy. Just let 
 me cry." 
 
 He besought her, he tried to comfort her, but she 
 would not tell him why she wept. Her tears flowed for 
 a while, and even after they had ceased, Graham felt 
 that it was little better, for she sat silent and looked 
 away from him out of the window, in spite of all his en- 
 treaties and appeals. 
 
 She was thinking how unkind he had been and ex- 
 cusing him in the same breath. Of course he had not 
 guessed how eagerly she had looked forward to seeing 
 I 62 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 the Countess, who had been one of her dearest school 
 friends. After having been for so long in such uninter- 
 rupted and novel intimacy with a man, Rosamond had 
 found herself thirsting for the sight of a girl friend, re- 
 joicing eagerly at the prospect of the Countess's arrival. 
 Moreover, she could not help imagining how much 
 happier she might have been in a place like Trouville 
 with George Brandon.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 VENICE 
 
 FREQUENT encounters with pleasant people may 
 make even the most wearisome honeymoon pass 
 pleasantly; at least this was the uncommunicated 
 thought of both Rosamond and Graham after they had 
 been two weeks in Switzerland. Rosamond had found 
 the study of battlefields as unenlivening as Graham had 
 found the promenade at Trouville. She felt that this 
 need not have been the case, that properly guided and 
 instructed she could have taken almost as intelligent 
 an interest in them as did her husband; but either he 
 pursued his studies and surveys in the absorbed inten- 
 sity of silence or he overpowered her with details. For 
 all his copiousness, she brought away from the two 
 days' inspection of the field of Waterloo nothing more 
 vivid or explanatory than the picture that Victor Hugo 
 had fastened in her mind of the French cavalry piling 
 up in the sunken road at Ohain. 
 
 In Switzerland Rosamond played tennis, made ex- 
 cursions on foot or on horseback, rose to look at sunrises, 
 loitered in little shops, read and talked on hotel veran- 
 das, dug out bits of local history, and collected various 
 contemporary impressions. She never went far afield 
 to gaze at grandeur. A charming view from her window 
 with which she might grow familiar was more to her 
 than the sublime spectacles that form episodes for the 
 [ 64 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 tourists. Graham, on the other hand, climbed moun- 
 tains. In their respective pursuits, they found con- 
 genial companions; they were not often companions for 
 each other. Dutifully every evening at dinner each 
 rehearsed to the other the gleanings of the day; the 
 latter courses of the table d'hote were often eaten in 
 silence. Sometimes in these arid silences Rosamond 
 wondered if this conscientious, carefully affectionate, 
 strangely tedious mate of hers had really been the gal- 
 lant cavalier of her romance, the daring soldier, the 
 hero who had dived to the rescue ! The thought of 
 that act invariably gave her lips a bitter twist; she 
 dwelt with mockery on the hero worship that it had 
 occasioned. The essential bravery of her husband's act 
 was obscured for her in the belated revelations of the 
 circumstances, in the exhibition of two crestfallen faces 
 of which one was George Brandon's. To humiliate 
 one who had already been defeated and who might have 
 had the victory Rosamond thinking of it felt a soft- 
 ness that was more than pity for George. And then, 
 thus harsh one moment towards her husband, she soft- 
 ened towards him the next; a native loyalty and justice 
 and affection righted her capsizing thoughts. Often he 
 would be no less bewildered than enraptured by warmth 
 blooming suddenly out of stony coldness, her soft arms 
 round his neck, her voice penitent and soothing as it 
 murmured, "I love you, Graham; oh, I love you, dear." 
 Then from his own heart thestored-up tenderness would 
 be released; holding her close he would protest his love 
 with kisses; and when at last they drew apart, it would 
 be to look at each other smiling and starry-eyed. Rosa- 
 [ 65 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 mond never looked so radiant or so charming as in the 
 flush after one of these confessions; Graham never 
 seemed so handsome or so nobly exultant as when the 
 kisses were still fresh upon his lips. Each realized this 
 fact about the other; the understanding drew their 
 hearts together. Graham once said in one of these mo- 
 ments, "Nobody ever sees you when you look like that 
 but me, Rosamond." And Rosamond answered, "You 
 never did look like that for any one but me, did you, 
 Graham?" 
 
 Capricious outbursts of affection succeeded by spasms 
 of revolt or periods of almost forgetful indifference 
 this was their honeymoon. They passed from place to 
 place; and in each place where they stopped, they passed 
 through all the varying temperamental vicissitudes; 
 storm and cloud and fog and sunshine moved with them 
 and had each one its season. So at last they came to 
 Venice, which to Rosamond should have meant the very 
 climax of delight. Indeed, she and Graham were never 
 closer to each other than when they arrived at midnight 
 and by moonlight, and were rowed through the narrow 
 waterways under the arched bridges and between the 
 dark sepulchral palaces, out suddenly into the glory of 
 the shining Grand Canal. They sat hand in hand. "Oh, 
 yes," murmured Graham. "This is the best of all." 
 Rosamond pressed his hand ecstatically. "Yes," she 
 said. "Nothing ever was so perfect as this. Oh, I knew 
 you must feel so about it, Graham." 
 
 No, he could not be insensible to the picturesqueness, 
 the never-failing freshness, the ever-present antiquity, 
 the rich romance of Venice. It beguiled him for a day 
 [ 66 }
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 or two as a fairy tale beguiles a child. Standing on the 
 Riva delli Schiavoni he expressed to Rosamond the wish 
 that he might be carried back for just one day to the 
 time when Venice was the mistress of the seas. "Just 
 to see a victorious fleet come in here and be welcomed 
 by the doges and populace the color and the splendor 
 of it!" he sighed. "Wouldn't you give something to 
 have been there on such a day?" 
 
 "You wouldn't wish yourself back five hundred 
 years and leave me waiting here, would you?" Rosa- 
 mond asked jealously. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I would, I should be so interesting when I 
 returned. I should never bore you any more." 
 
 "You don't often bore me. When you do, it's just 
 because I 'm selfish and don't like to see you more inter- 
 ested in other things than me." 
 
 "Oh, but you're always the one great big thing!" he 
 cried. 
 
 " Am I? " Her eyes brightened believingly. " Oh, I 'm 
 so glad you think so. Shall we take a gondola over to 
 the Lido? You'll find that almost as amusing as going 
 back five hundred years." 
 
 Stout German ladies in striped bathing-suits and 
 hats shaped somewhat like those of the Pilgrim fathers, 
 but made of straw, promenaded barefoot on the beach. 
 Some of them smoked cigarettes and were accompanied 
 by scantily attired gentlemen with whom they seemed 
 to be conversing with the utmost dignity. Family par- 
 ties lay about on the sand, taking sunbaths, the heads 
 of swimmers bobbed on the blue Adriatic; and Rosa- 
 mond and Graham sat in the pavilion and looked on 
 1 67 ]
 
 with the cheerful amusement of two happy persons who 
 are feeling that the world is created for delight. 
 
 That was the feeling that Venice had always inspired 
 in Rosamond. Graham shared it for two days. At 
 night when they went out upon the Grand Canal and 
 heard the singing from the illuminated floats, Graham 
 felt the same romantic tenderness that the opening bars 
 of the march from "Lohengrin" had roused in him at 
 his wedding. It did not matter that the piano was out 
 of tune and that the voices of the singers were not espe- 
 cially melodious; the spirit of the melodies, the moon- 
 light streaming across the water and beating on the 
 noble palaces beyond, the hooded gondolas hovering 
 close, each one a craft with a mysterious past and a 
 romantic present, and most of all this girl beside him, 
 whose hand lay warm within his own all quickened 
 Graham's imagination and it is imagination that 
 gives life to love. 
 
 But in Venice a man whose impulses are all towards 
 activity soon grows restless. When the novelty had 
 worn off and only the queerness remained, when the 
 labyrinthine byways had ceased to be alluring and had 
 become irritating, and particularly when the first en- 
 chanted wonder began to be expelled by the absorption 
 of enlightening information, Graham revolted against 
 the tyranny of the place. He longed for the open coun- 
 try and a horse to ride. His thoughts reverted to the 
 battlefields of Lombardy past which the train had 
 borne him. He pursued the study of Titian and Tin- 
 toretto with docility, but it was only the long swims in 
 the afternoon at the Lido that made the second week 
 [ 68 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 in Venice tolerable to him. Rosamond was still eager 
 and enraptured. The weather was perfect, the little 
 children along the canals pleased her eye and touched 
 her heart, the galleries and churches had not lost their 
 charm; and all the pleasant objects and experiences 
 were made twice dear to her by her husband's presence. 
 She felt that not before in all their honeymoon had they 
 shared a pleasure so completely; she dwelt with such 
 caressing satisfaction on his enthusiasm during the first 
 few days that his subsequent more quiet acceptance of 
 her enthusiasm had not disappointed her. 
 
 One evening as they sat at dinner in the hotel, he said 
 to her, "Let's see; you were planning to stop here a 
 week longer, were n't you, Rosamond?" 
 
 "Why, yes. Are you tired of it, Graham?" 
 
 Her expression was so surprised and hurt that he had 
 not the courage to tell her the truth. "Oh, no; it's the 
 most delightful place I've ever been in. But I will 
 admit I 'm beginning to pine for a little run in the coun- 
 try. And there are so many good battlefields within 
 easy reach. But I certainly don't want to cut short 
 your stay in Venice, not by a single hour." 
 
 "You don't understand," she said wistfully. "I can't 
 really enjoy anything now, unless you enjoy it too." 
 
 That confession of her dependence touched him. 
 "Dearest," he declared, "I've never enjoyed anything 
 so much as being here with you. We won't cut it short 
 at all. That was just a passing notion you know my 
 mania for battlefields makes me foolish at times." 
 
 She responded to this with a docile smile, and he be- 
 stirred himself to convince her of the sincerity of his in- 
 l 69 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 terest. They had n't yet been over to the Giudecca or 
 to San Giorgio, and of course they must visit the glass 
 factories; there were any number of things that he 
 wanted to do. Was there, by the way, any one event 
 that marked the passing of the power of Venice on the 
 seas? She answered him cheerfully, but on her brow 
 and in her eyes there was the abstracted look of the wife 
 who is not deceived. 
 
 It rested there frequently during the next two days 
 and subdued his sprightliness. WTiat she had said to 
 Graham proved disquietingly true; as soon as she be- 
 came aware of his restlessness, her own capacity for 
 extracting pleasure from her surroundings vanished. 
 Realizing this, she felt alarm at the surrender of her 
 personality that she had made. Henceforward for her 
 happiness she must depend on her husband, his patience 
 and love. She had never really believed that she should 
 find herself so unreservedly in his hands. "Graham," 
 she said on the third day, "I believe that we've ex- 
 hausted Venice; anyway, I feel that it would be pleasant 
 to make a change. What are the places that you wanted 
 to see?" 
 
 So it happened that they were a week on their way up 
 to Paris. They visited the battlefields of Marengo and 
 Lodi. '
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE SOUND OF TRUMPETS FROM AFAR 
 
 IN a palm-shaded corner of the hotel courtyard, 
 Mrs. Vasmer was scanning the Paris edition of the 
 New York "Herald"; her daughter Dorothy sat by her 
 side idly waiting for her to finish and hand over that 
 chatty publication. It was the half -hour after break- 
 fast, when Mrs. Vasmer always succumbed to inertia 
 before gathering her forces for the day, and when Doro- 
 thy was most possessed with the spirit of impatient 
 energy. This morning she was more than usually eager, 
 for her mother had promised to come with her and view 
 the heavenly black and old-rose ball gown which had so 
 taken her fancy the day before at Paquin's. Because 
 she wished her mother to accompany her in the most 
 benignant state of mind, she was striving hard not to be 
 restless; and because she had conjured up a fascinating 
 picture of herself in that black and old-rose gown, her 
 gray eyes were gently pensive and her soft lips were 
 parted, as if in brooding tenderness. So rapt was she 
 in her vision that the cry startled her, "Why, Doro- 
 thy! Can it be!" 
 
 She looked up to see Rosamond Rappallo and her hus- 
 band. "Oh, you dear people!" She sprang from her 
 chair, flung her arms round Rosamond and kissed her. 
 "Where have you come from? Do tell me you're going 
 to stay! You've dropped down like an angel from 
 [ 71 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 heaven, for there's the loveliest gown at Paquin's, you 
 must make mother buy it for me. Oh, my dear, what 
 fun we shall have in the shops!" 
 
 She hesitated long enough to give her hand to Graham 
 and to permit her mother to join in the greeting. 
 
 "Yes, we just got in from Italy last night," Rosamond 
 explained. "Oh, yes, a wonderful time." 
 
 "You went to Venice?" Mrs. Vasmer asked. 
 
 "Yes; it was lovely there moonlight nights, beau- 
 tiful weather " 
 
 "We went to Venice on our honeymoon, my husband 
 and I." Mrs. Vasmer's tranquil voice had a momentary 
 note of wistf ulness. "I 've never quite dared to go back 
 to it since then, for fear of spoiling what was so perfect. 
 And yet I hover round the thought of it. You '11 find 
 that you always will." 
 
 Rosamond was transfixed by a pang at the thought 
 that in her honeymoon she had missed something that 
 others had found and treasured in theirs. But she an- 
 swered in a steady voice. "I'm sure that I shall and 
 some time we'll be brave and go back to Venice, won't 
 we, Graham?" 
 
 "Of course," he said cheerfully. He preferred com- 
 monplace to sentiment as a topic of general conversa- 
 tion, and he turned to Dorothy. "Have you been here 
 long, Miss Vasmer? Where have you been and what 
 have you been doing? " 
 
 " WVve just come down from Munich, where we had 
 
 a couple of weeks of opera. We shall be here about 
 
 a month, I hope. Father is sailing from New York 
 
 tomorrow coming over to take us home. Oh, 
 
 [ 72 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Rosamond, my dear, whom do you think we saw hi 
 Vienna?" 
 
 "I can't imagine." 
 
 "Dr. Brandon. We met him the day after we got 
 there, hurrying to a medical lecture, with his books 
 under his arm, just like a schoolboy. He could barely 
 wait to hear where we were stopping. But he called the 
 next afternoon, and then he dined with us twice, and 
 took us to an open-air band concert. He was too busy to 
 do more than that." 
 
 "Too busy?" 
 
 "Yes, he was studying brain surgery under some 
 famous man I can't possibly remember his name. 
 He'd gone straight there from Liverpool, and he'd been 
 at it all summer. He 's still at it, I suppose, although 
 I believe he said the course, or whatever it was, would 
 end early in September." 
 
 Graham lighted a cigarette and flicked the match 
 away with an emphatic gesture. "That makes me feel 
 like a loafer," he said. "I feel that it's about time for 
 me to be doing something, too." 
 
 "But, Mr. Rappallo, Dr. Brandon is n't on his honey- 
 moon," exclaimed Mrs. Vasmer. 
 
 In the silence that followed all four flushed and felt 
 uncomfortable. There was a startled recognition of the 
 fact that the bridegroom had been detected yawning, as 
 it were, over his happiness and had been reproved in a 
 manner too open to be considerate of either his feelings 
 or his wife's. Mrs. Vasmer tried quickly to make 
 amends. 
 
 "After all, Dr. Brandon has just finished with a six 
 [ 73 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 months' vacation in South America, and so finds work 
 a pleasant novelty. And I know that in your case, Mr. 
 Rappallo, though it may be pleasant, it is n't a novelty. 
 Through my husband I keep in touch with the profes- 
 sion." 
 
 Graham expressed polite satisfaction that his activi- 
 ties had commended themselves to one of Mr. Vasmer's 
 eminence. 
 
 "Yes, they have," Mrs. Vasmer assured him. "And 
 now I '11 tell you something although I usually don't 
 approve of complimenting people so flatly. When I first 
 heard that you were going to marry Rosamond, I asked 
 my husband about you; and he said in his most delib- 
 erate way and when he wants to be impressive he is 
 always deliberate 'In my judgment, no girl could do 
 better.'" 
 
 "There!" cried Rosamond, clasping her husband's 
 arm; and the faces of all were at once so charged with 
 pleasure that Mrs. Vasmer felt she had amply atoned 
 for her lapse. She rose from her chair and said, 
 
 "For the last half -hour Dorothy has been straining 
 at the leash. Won't you come with us, Rosamond, and 
 help us to decide about the ball dress?" 
 
 Rosamond turned a questioning glance on Graham. 
 
 "Yes, run along," he said. "I'll write some letters 
 and amuse myself. See if you can't pick out something 
 pretty for me to give you." 
 
 "Is n't he a nice husband!" cried Rosamond. "In- 
 deed, I will, Graham dear." 
 
 So off with Dorothy and Mrs. Vasmer she went 
 feeling quite gay and exultant at being in the company 
 I 74 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 of a girl friend again. The shop windows took on 
 somehow a fresher interest, the interchange before 
 them of enthusiastic comment or criticism was delight- 
 fully stimulating. At Paquin's Rosamond supported 
 Dorothy's choice, and Mrs. Vasmer acquiesced in it. 
 Dorothy then assisted Rosamond to pick out a green- 
 and-gold ball dress for herself. 
 
 "Oh, but I can't!" cried Rosamond, aghast, when 
 she had learned the price. 
 
 "It's so lovely," urged Dorothy. "If your husband 
 saw it, he could n't resist it, I know. It 's just the thing 
 for your coloring ; you 'd be perfectly stunning in it. Men 
 love their wives to be stunning when they go to balls." 
 
 "Yes, but I could n't suggest his giving me anything 
 so expensive as that." 
 
 "Why not? If he can't afford it, he'll tell you so. If 
 he can, it 's a perfect crime for you not to have it. If you 
 won't speak to him about it, I will." 
 
 "I suppose I might ask him just how far he was pre- 
 pared to go when he told me to get something pretty for 
 myself," said Rosamond doubtfully. 
 
 "Yes, do. And if his answer is n't satisfactory, tell 
 him you '11 economize in every other way, but you must 
 have that gown. You must, you know; I've set my 
 heart on seeing you in it." 
 
 "Well, I'll talk with him about it," Rosamond pro- 
 mised. " I do adore pretty things; when I stand and look 
 at them I can feel my backbone soften. Is n't it too 
 bad!" 
 
 "All attractive girls are that way," said Dorothy 
 sententiously. "It is n't nice to be scrimpy." 
 I 75 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "It would do you a lot of good, my child, to marry a 
 poor young man," observed Mrs. Vasmer. 
 
 "Thank heaven my friends are mostly rather rich," 
 was Dorothy's flippant reply. "Not that I'm likely to 
 marry any of them, though." 
 
 "Is n't it funny how usual it is to marry strangers!" 
 said Rosamond. 
 
 Dorothy shot a keen glance at her; they were passing 
 out of the shop. "That's about the only way you can 
 get any romance into your life. Romance is one thing; 
 comfort 's another. I have n't made up my mind yet 
 which I shall choose. Of course comfort in the long 
 run would be the best, I suppose yet it would be hor- 
 rid to look back and feel you'd never had the other." 
 
 "Yes, horrid," said Rosamond. Now that she was 
 out on the street again, she was unaccountably think- 
 ing of George Brandon and the news that Dorothy had 
 given of him. It was as if Dorothy had read her thought, 
 for she said, quite irrelevantly, 
 
 "Dr. Brandon told me that he is coming back to 
 Boston to practice this winter." 
 
 "I wonder how long he will stick to it." 
 
 "He seemed very much in earnest about his work." 
 
 Rosamond was silent. The statement she had just 
 heard assumed a wistful probability. Now that 
 George's earnestness in the pursuit of her was over, 
 what more natural than that he should pursue with 
 earnestness that which on account of her he had ne- 
 glected? She wondered if she could ever have so unset- 
 tled Graham's life and thoughts, and wished that she 
 had done it before making her surrender. Now she 
 I 76 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 could never do it and it was obviously not a thing 
 that a woman should want to do to her husband. 
 
 Graham returned to the hotel in a pleasant state of 
 excitement. He had found his way over to the Boule- 
 vard St. Germain, to the War Office, and there, as he 
 was entering the door, had encountered Captain Pierre 
 Fortrel. 
 
 "He was one of the military attaches with the Ameri- 
 can troops in Cuba," Graham explained to Rosamond. 
 "We saw a good deal of each other down there, and still 
 more on the transport coming home. In fact, he fell ill 
 of a fever, and I helped look after him. He's now at- 
 tached to the general staff, and has had a hand in plan- 
 ning the autumn maneuvers which are to take place 
 next week near Poitiers." 
 
 "Oh," said Rosamond quickly. "You'd like to go to 
 them, would n't you?" 
 
 Graham tried to affect indifference. "Oh, it would be 
 rather interesting. Especially as Fortrel has offered to 
 introduce me at headquarters. Of course, having the 
 maneuvers on the scene of one of the great battles of the 
 world is an additional touch. But it would be no place 
 for a lady there, and I 'm very well contented to be in 
 Paris with you." 
 
 "I should n't be very well contented to have you on 
 such lukewarm terms," said Rosamond. "You must 
 tell Captain Fortrel at once that you will go with him. 
 Yes, indeed, you must; it's much too interesting a 
 thing for you to miss." 
 
 "I don't like the idea of leaving you here alone " 
 
 "I shan't be alone. I shall be with the Vasmers. 
 [ 77 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 You need n't have the slightest hesitation about leav- 
 ing me. How long shall you be gone?" 
 
 "A week, probably." 
 
 "I shall get along finely. I shan't miss you at all." 
 
 "I'd rather you wouldn't say that." 
 
 "Why? Do you think that you will miss me?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "If you really thought that you would n't want to go. 
 You know you will be so active and interested and ex- 
 cited that you won't miss me in the least. If you don't 
 know it, I do, Graham dear." 
 
 But to show him that she did not resent it, she slipped 
 her arm around him and gave him an understanding, 
 affectionate kiss. He caught and held her and kissed 
 her with the sudden ardor that always gave her a mo- 
 mentary pleasant tingling of the senses. 
 
 "You're so sweet to me, Rosamond; I wonder how 
 I can ever want to leave you for a moment! But I do 
 sometimes, for such a thing as this, for instance, 
 and the coming back to you will be all the sweeter." 
 
 "I should n't want you to be one of those uxorious 
 husbands," said Rosamond. "The man who is too 
 utterly satisfied with his wife's society is just a lazy- 
 bones." 
 
 Graham made the mistake of giving to this statement 
 his unquestioning assent. "But what will you do with 
 yourself while I'm gone?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, I shall go about among the shops with Doro- 
 thy." 
 
 That reminded him of something. "You promised 
 me you'd get yourself something pretty. Did you?" 
 I 78 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 " No, but I saw a dress that I liked; only it was fright- 
 fully expensive." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "I don't dare to tell you." 
 
 "A thousand francs?" 
 
 "More than that." 
 
 "Much more?" 
 
 "Fifteen hundred." 
 
 Graham was silent for a moment, as if computing. 
 "Get it," he said, "if you really like it." 
 
 "Oh, Graham, can you afford it, truly?" 
 
 "Yes, perfectly. And if you see other things that you 
 like very much and they're within reason, get them, 
 too." 
 
 "I shouldn't dare, Graham. You're always so gen- 
 erous. I 'm afraid I should be extravagant unless you 
 named a sum that I was n't to exceed." 
 
 Again Graham was silent as if computing. "Well," 
 he said, "while I'm gone you can spend a thousand 
 francs I mean on things for yourself." 
 
 "You are so generous to me, Graham. I don't believe 
 really you can afford it." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I can," he answered. "Besides, this is our 
 honeymoon." 
 
 That was not the happiest thing for him to have said. 
 Showering her with gifts, he was trying to salve the hurt 
 that his eagerness to rush from her side had inflicted. 
 Already, she thought, he was buying his freedom with 
 gifts. It was the way of husbands, no doubt, but she 
 wished that the occasion for resorting to it had not arisen 
 on their honeymoon. Then she found that in spite of 
 [ 79 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 this sentiment, the thought of the ball dress and the 
 thousand francs had considerable potency over her in- 
 jured feelings, and she vaguely regretted that it could 
 have. It seemed to mark the vanishing of all the tender, 
 mystical, ideal meanings that had hitherto clung for her 
 round the word "bride." 
 
 On the morning of his departure the rain poured 
 down. The skies were so dark that he had to shave by 
 electric light; helping him pack in the disordered room, 
 with the rain beating against the windows and with its 
 insistent clatter seeming to add to the confusion, Rosa- 
 mond felt unexpectedly miserable. She wished that he 
 would give her a glance, read what was in her heart, 
 and suddenly tell her that not for anything would he 
 go away. Oh, if he would do that, how she could love 
 him then! Bending over his bag and carefully arranging 
 socks and shirts, she hid the tears that were in her eyes. 
 Graham was stepping briskly about the room, chat- 
 ting cheerfully, mainly to himself. "Razors, yes, 
 shaving-strop, neckties, handkerchiefs, shaving-brush 
 it 's one of those things I 'm likely to forget. Yes, 
 I have everything. Now let 's see if the old bag will 
 shut." 
 
 He found that it would, and when he looked up at 
 Rosamond, she was smiling. "You're a wonderful help 
 at packing," he said. "Too bad it's such a beast of a 
 day, Rosamond, but don't you care; you and Dorothy 
 must have some sort of a spree." 
 
 "Oh, we shall," she assured him. 
 
 "Write to me and tell me all about yourself; you're 
 sure you have n't mislaid the address? All right. I'll 
 [ 80 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 drop you a line as soon as I arrive. It 's about time 
 the boy was coming for the bag." 
 
 "Hadn't you better ring? You mustn't miss your 
 train." 
 
 "Oh, no, they 're always prompt in these hotels." 
 And then, after a brief interval of silence, there was a 
 knock on the door; the boy had come. After he had 
 staggered out with the bag, Graham slipped his arm 
 round his wife and said, "You're a brick to let me go, 
 Rosamond. Have a good time and buy a lot of nice 
 things to show me when I come back." 
 
 "I will," she promised. "Don't fall off a horse or get 
 run over by a cannon or anything." 
 
 "No, indeed. If I do, I'll telegraph you. Good-bye, 
 dear." 
 
 They kissed each other, and she accompanied him 
 downstairs and saw him drive away, and gave him a 
 last glance from smiling eyes. 
 
 But in her heart she felt wounded. If only he had 
 found at the last moment that he could not leave her! 
 Or even if in going he had shown her that he was on the 
 brink of tears!
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE DESERTED BRIDE 
 
 ALL the morning Mrs. Vasmer had been fretting 
 because she had received no word from her hus- 
 band, who must have arrived in Liverpool two days be- 
 fore. In the afternoon Dorothy persuaded her to go 
 with her and Rosamond to the Opera Comique. "When 
 we get back to the hotel, we shall probably find father 
 waiting for us," she said. "You know he likes to sur- 
 prise us." 
 
 Mrs. Vasmer's anxiety to return to the hotel and find 
 that the surprise predicted was awaiting her interfered 
 with her enjoyment of the performance. Driving home, 
 she was eager and nervous with expectancy. Rosamond 
 reflected that Mrs. Vasmer must have been married at 
 least thirty years. "Should I be so excited, after all 
 that time!" she wondered. And she thought again of 
 Mrs. Vasmer's confession about Venice, and felt sad. 
 
 When they arrived at the hotel the concierge gave 
 Mrs. Vasmer a telegram. 
 
 "Oh, he is n't here!" she exclaimed with disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 She opened the telegram, and instantly the eager and 
 
 expectant look on her face was swept away by terror. 
 
 She trembled and caught Rosamond's hand and gripped 
 
 it with nervous fingers so bewildered and frightened 
 
 [ 82 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 that she did not know that it was not her daughter to 
 whom she clung. 
 
 "Dorothy, dear," she cried breathlessly, "look, dear. 
 It's bad news; do do you think it's very bad? " 
 
 Dorothy with a pale face read the message while 
 Rosamond led Mrs. Vasmer to a chair in the courtyard. 
 
 "No," said Dorothy in a troubled voice, "no, mother, 
 dear; it seems to me it can't be so so bad." 
 
 "What does it say?" asked Rosamond. 
 
 Dorothy held the message out to her, and she read : 
 
 " CHBIST CHURCH HOSPITAL, LONDON. 
 "Operation on Mr. Vasmer appendicitis this after- 
 noon. Condition serious but not alarming. 
 
 "RoxTON, Surgeon." 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Vasmer, you must n't dread anything," 
 Rosamond said. "It's not alarming, the doctor says 
 and the fact that the operation is safely over " 
 
 "But is it? It does n't say that, and his condition's 
 serious it means oh, I don't dare to think what it 
 means!" Mrs. Vasmer rose, still trembling, but with 
 the firmness of self-control. "Dorothy, we must go to 
 your father at once. I wonder if we can get a train to- 
 night." 
 
 "I'll find out for you," Rosamond said. "I'll make 
 all the arrangements and bring you word." 
 
 "Thank you, dear. Come, Dorothy; we must begin 
 our packing now." 
 
 Rosamond learned that there was a train at seven 
 o'clock, and that by taking it they could be in London 
 [ 83 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 at eight o'clock the next morning. In half an hour she 
 was driving with them to the station. 
 
 "My dear, you've been such a help to us," Mrs. Vas- 
 mer said. "And I feel so sorry at leaving you here all 
 alone. Do telegraph your husband and have him come 
 back." 
 
 "Oh, dear, no," said Rosamond. "I know Paris 
 pretty well, and I shall find plenty to do." 
 
 At the gate she kissed them and bade them good-by, 
 and with sympathetic eyes watched them while they 
 followed the porter along the platform. 
 
 Returning in a fiacre to her hotel she felt depressed. 
 The telegram had been ominous; she dreaded to think 
 what Mrs. Vasmer and Dorothy might find upon their 
 arrival in London. Not until this trouble had come 
 upon them had she known how affectionate was her 
 feeling for them. Now that her hands were empty and 
 she could no longer help, she felt not the freedom but 
 the constraint of her loneliness. 
 
 Her dinner that evening in the brilliant dining-room 
 was a new experience. It was perhaps the first meal 
 that she had ever eaten alone the first meal certainly 
 of such formality. She had dressed carefully, she wore 
 her jewels, she was handsome; the eyes of the men dwelt 
 on her. She had not minded this when she had been din- 
 ing with her husband or with the Vasmers; she had even 
 liked it. Now it disconcerted her; she felt as if she could 
 easily break into sobs; she felt exposed, unprotected. 
 She finished her dinner hastily, and going at once to her 
 room resolved that until Graham returned she would 
 not dine so publicly again. 
 
 [ 84 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 She spent the evening writing to him, but although 
 she described fully what she had done in the morning 
 and the performance at the theater in the afternoon, she 
 said nothing whatever of the departure of the Vasmers. 
 She had been deterred by two considerations; one, that 
 if she mentioned their departure he might feel compelled 
 to come to her, and the other that if she mentioned 
 their departure he might not think it necessary to come 
 to her. It was the second possibility that she dreaded 
 the more. The letter that she wrote was such as must 
 surely have made the man who received it think of her 
 with love and tenderness. 
 
 It was only a week that she had to wait for her hus- 
 band's return so she told herself with an effort at 
 cheerfulness. A week and surely she was not so poor 
 a creature as to lack resources for occupying herself dur- 
 ing that space of time. Hitherto she had always felt a 
 shy and modest confidence in her courage and independ- 
 ence. But upon this evening it all seemed to have van- 
 ished. Married woman though she was, she seemed only 
 an inexperienced and very lonely little girl. 
 
 She went to bed early; but with the lights out, in- 
 stead of falling asleep she became harassed by terrifying 
 thoughts. Suppose some disaster should befall Gra- 
 ham! He might meet with an accident, he might be 
 stricken with typhoid fever; in military operations ty- 
 phoid fever was always to be expected. Why had she 
 not thought of this before; why had she ever let him go? 
 She tried to think if there was anybody at all in Paris 
 whom she knew, anybody to whom she might turn, but 
 there was no one. The Countess of Cassieres had not 
 [ 85 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 yet returned to town; and Rosamond had not happened 
 to encounter any American friends. As she lay in bed 
 and thought about it, her isolation seemed to grow more 
 and more appalling. She might fall ill herself, and there 
 would be nobody to care for her; how desperate for Gra- 
 ham if she should die! She pitied him and yearned for 
 him. The hours passed and she tossed restlessly. "Oh, 
 Graham, dear, how could you have gone away from me ! " 
 she sighed. She who had never before felt lonely in her 
 life and who had looked upon marriage as all com- 
 panionship and comradeship was finding that it meant 
 at times an undreamed-of loneliness too. 
 
 At last she slept; she awoke to see the window cur- 
 tains blowing airily horizontal in shafts of sunlight. She 
 dressed, and while she was dressing a postcard was 
 slipped under her door. It was from her husband, and 
 announced his safe arrival at the camp headquarters. 
 He had written, "With my love," and had drawn after 
 that a circle, which she knew was intended to designate 
 a kiss. She pressed her lips to it and smiled at her silli- 
 ness; then she put the postcard into her purse in order 
 that, wherever she went, she might have that message 
 with her. 
 
 "I don't look so very haggard," she thought with 
 pleasure as she pinned on her hat. "What a fine morn- 
 ing! I think after breakfast I shall stroll over to the 
 Luxembourg." 
 
 While she was at breakfast, a telegram was brought 
 to her. She knew that it must be from the Vasmers; she 
 opened it anxiously and read : 
 
 [ 86 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Arrived safely. Father quite comfortable; we feel 
 hopeful. DOROTHY." 
 
 Rosamond said to herself, "I 'm so glad; oh, is n't it 
 a fine morning!" And she looked happily out at the 
 sunny courtyard, with its semi-tropical shrubs. How 
 foolish had been her fears of the night before, and all her 
 thoughts of death ! She felt now exultant in her tempo- 
 rary freedom; what though it did mean loneliness! She 
 had before her the thrill of possible adventure. 
 
 Leaving the hotel she walked down to the Garden of 
 the Tuileries. The old gentleman who charmed the 
 birds was there; the sparrows fluttered round him and 
 alighted on his arms and shoulders and hat. He must 
 be a kindly soul, she thought and who would not be 
 kindly in these pleasant open gardens? Yet what hor- 
 rors they had seen! 
 
 She crossed the Pont Royal and walked slowly along 
 the Quai Voltaire. In front of the Institut she stopped 
 to watch two extremely able-bodied men who were 
 making a living by lifting enormous heavy weights and 
 then quickly passing the hat while the spectators still 
 stood rooted in astonishment. Rosamond had dropped 
 in a half-franc and was turning away when she heard her 
 name cried out; she raised her eyes and saw George 
 Brandon approaching her; he had plucked off his hat 
 and was holding out his hand, and his face was as 
 radiant as the morning. 
 
 "Rosamond!" he exclaimed. "George!" she cried. 
 In the utterance of each name there was the clear accent 
 of surprised delight. They stood, looking each into the 
 I 87 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 other's face, laughing eagerly, greeting each other over 
 and over again excitedly, George still bareheaded, his 
 eyes shining, his lips smiling, Rosamond with the tremu- 
 lous trill of laughter that had always made her to him 
 the most appealing creature in the world, and with a 
 warm flush on her cheeks. 
 
 "Where are you going now, George?" she asked at 
 last. 
 
 "This moment?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Wherever you are. That is, if you'll let me." 
 
 That note of uncertainty and deference touched and 
 somehow hurt her. In other days he would not have 
 felt it necessary to ask permission. "Oh, I shall be so 
 glad to have you with me!" she exclaimed. "I was 
 going to the Luxembourg. Should you like that?" 
 
 "Above all things." 
 
 One of the strong men interposed politely with his hat.. 
 George transferred to it a coin which produced a pro- 
 found obeisance. 
 
 "George,* dear!" exclaimed Rosamond reprovingly as 
 they walked away. "That was a two-franc piece!" 
 
 "Well, perhaps he deserved it," George answered. 
 "I feel like enriching all the poor this morning." 
 
 They turned into the Rue de Seine. George walked 
 by Rosamond's side feeling almost incredulous of his 
 happiness. She was aware of his feeling and was pleased 
 and touched, even while wondering at it for on ship- 
 board he had shown her that he was determined to up- 
 root the sentiment that had flourished for so many 
 years. She was quite brimming with the joyous excite- 
 [ 88 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ment at finding that he was still under her spell. To 
 have him glancing at her again with the old admiration 
 in his eyes and the gay smile on his lips inflated her with 
 a buoyancy such as she had not often felt during her 
 honeymoon. Indeed, as they walked towards the Lux- 
 embourg they presented the most charming appearance 
 of two young Americans freshly arrived upon their wed- 
 ding tour. Graham and Rosamond walking together 
 had some time since ceased to attract such smiling at- 
 tention as was now bestowed upon George and Rosa- 
 mond. 
 
 "I'm very fortunate," George said. "I arrived only 
 this morning and I'm leaving day after to-morrow; 
 what luck to find you without the loss of a moment!" 
 
 "What luck!" Rosamond echoed; but she inwardly 
 sighed, "Day after to-morrow!" She said aloud, "You 
 don't give much time to Paris." 
 
 "Not now; I'm homeward bound. I'm sailing from 
 Cherbourg day after to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, are you ! " Incautiously a note of envy crept into 
 her voice. She tried to obliterate it by adding quickly, 
 "I look forward to two or three more weeks here; Paris 
 is just beginning to be gay." 
 
 "Yes, but I'm just beginning to be serious-minded." 
 
 "Dorothy Vasmer told me that you were." 
 
 " Oh ! You Ve seen Miss Vasmer ! " 
 
 "They've been stopping at the same hotel." 
 
 "Is she still there?" 
 
 She thought she detected eagerness in his question, 
 and she was rather glad now to be able to answer, "No." 
 
 "I'm sorry. I hoped that I might encounter her 
 [ 89 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 again. She's very attractive and her mother's 
 charming." 
 
 His regret was so clearly casual that Rosamond's 
 momentary jealousy vanished. She told him of the mis- 
 fortune that had befallen the Vasmers. George shook 
 his head. 
 
 "English surgeons don't operate for appendicitis 
 with the same success as our men. I hope all will go well, 
 Was it the gallery that you wanted to visit?" 
 
 "Oh, I shall have plenty of time to look at pictures 
 when I'm alone." The admission of loneliness slipped 
 out before she realized it; she reddened and added, 
 "Let's go into the garden and find a pleasant seat where 
 we can talk." 
 
 They passed through the gate, and George said, 
 "Your husband does n't care much for sight-seeing? " 
 
 "I think we all get rather bored with it at times. 
 There, if we go down this path we shan't be compelled 
 to look at the twenty marble Frenchwomen. There 's a 
 seat under a chestnut tree; shall we go there? " 
 
 "I don't care where we go. I 'm having a good time." 
 
 "So am I. Well! Let's sit down and talk about all 
 our good times." 
 
 She told him of the places she had visited and the 
 friends she had met. She spoke of her husband's inter- 
 est in battlefields but she refrained from mentioning 
 that it had now taken Graham from her side. She did 
 not wish George to know of this act of desertion. Lean- 
 ing forward with her hands resting on the ivory top of 
 her parasol, looking round at him from under her pretty 
 hat, she seemed to George more delightful than she had 
 [ 90 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ever been before, because she was more radiant with the 
 pleasure of the moment; never before, he felt, had she 
 been quite so glad to see him as she was now. The cause 
 of this roused his curiosity; was it that she was so happy 
 in her marriage that such joyous gayety always streamed 
 from her or was it that in the disillusion of her mar- 
 riage the sight of her old lover was doubly welcome to 
 her eyes? George hoped that she was happy, yet he 
 would also have been glad to be assured that the cause 
 of the warmth in her tone, the soft brilliancy in her eyes, 
 was personal to him. 
 
 "Oh," she exclaimed suddenly, "I'm so glad you're 
 willing to sit on a bench with me and talk! The last 
 time we met, you made me feel that you 'd never do any- 
 thing like that again!" 
 
 "I was rather silly," he admitted. "My disappoint- 
 ment then was too sharp ; I did feel that I could n't com- 
 fortably be near you any more. But a man overcomes 
 that state of feeling in time and it 's foolish for him to 
 deprive himself of little pleasures just because he can't 
 have great happiness." 
 
 That speech, delivered so smilingly, wounded her; it 
 declared his emancipation. 
 
 "You know," she said, "I don't quite like to think of 
 myself just as one of your little pleasures." 
 
 "You liked even less to think of yourself as my great 
 happiness," he reminded her. 
 
 "I wonder if women are unlike men in that they al- 
 ways want to have their cake and eat it too," she mused. 
 "I shall really feel quite badly, George, when I hear of 
 your engagement." 
 
 [ 91 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "That, I imagine, is a pain that you will never be 
 compelled to suffer." 
 
 "Oh, yes." A mirthful glance from her eyes traveled 
 slowly over his debonair person and rested on his whim- 
 sically inclined face. "You have traveled a long way 
 since you left the steamer. Your goal may not yet be 
 in sight, but it may confront you now any day, any 
 hour." 
 
 "No girl can be my goal. Seeing you makes me know 
 that." 
 
 "Ah, you must learn to take your little pleasures 
 lightly." 
 
 "There is no pleasure unless one abandons one's self 
 to it utterly." 
 
 "And will you do that to me to-day?" 
 
 "As far as I may be permitted. That is to say, until 
 your excellent husband joins us. I have never liked to 
 feel that I was the third person, and in this particular 
 instance my dislike of that situation is poignant." 
 
 "I won't force you into it. In fact, to-day Graham is 
 with some military friends an attache whom he knew 
 in Cuba, and some others. That is how I happened to 
 be alone this morning. I was expecting to lunch alone 
 and pass the afternoon alone." This she felt, was all 
 truthful, even if not the whole truth; more, from a senti- 
 ment of wounded pride, she could not bring herself to 
 confess. 
 
 "Ah, but alone no longer! Then this day is mine." 
 
 "Would you like it? Would you care to lunch with 
 me?" 
 
 "I with you you with me both of us together I 
 [ 92 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Was n't I lucky to be walking on the Quai this morn- 
 ing!" 
 
 For a moment she looked at him softly; she had never 
 realized before how sweet and nourishing to her happi- 
 ness was the expression of his admiration and his love. 
 
 They walked slowly across the Pont de Carrousel, 
 through the Tuileries Garden, up the Rue Roy ale; it 
 was a golden, peaceful, still September noon; strolling 
 along, in response to Rosamond's questions, George out- 
 lined his plans. He had been fortunate enough to obtain 
 the position of assistant to Dr. Armazet; it was a place 
 that would insure him plenty of practice in general sur- 
 gery and also plenty of discipline. "Which, according 
 to my sister Hetty, is what I very much need. Dr. 
 Armazet's regard for my father seems to have been 
 greater than his distrust of a rolling stone. He was good 
 enough to write that he thought I must have inherited 
 some qualities. Now I must prove that I have." 
 
 Rosamond glanced at him with sudden new interest. 
 She had often heard him express dogged determination 
 she had been in the habit of hearing him express it 
 but never before, as she would have said, about a matter 
 so well worth while! And there was a ring of content- 
 ment, too, in his voice as he stated his purpose. 
 
 They lunched, and then they went driving in the 
 Bois, and had tea at the Pre Catelan. Now that he was 
 no longer pursuing her, no longer sang but one many- 
 cadenced song, she began to find him more interesting 
 than she had ever hitherto supposed him; in the easy 
 intercourse of the afternoon he revealed unconsciously 
 a maturity which seemed to her strangely new. He was 
 [ 03 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 George Brandon, and yet he was not George Brandon; 
 and she was led to the wistful reflection that not until 
 after a man ceases to love a girl too consumingly is she 
 likely to see him in his full stature. Graham had never 
 loved her quite as George had done; he had always been 
 able to reserve a due share of his attention for his busi- 
 ness and his regular diversions; and she had admired 
 the strength and poise of such a nature. Now she found 
 herself for the first time in her life a little in awe of George. 
 It was an incredible feeling for her to have in his presence; 
 yet at moments some shrewd utterance that showed a 
 deeper insight than she had ever attributed to him, some 
 hardly to be defined indication of an adequacy to situa- 
 tions which she had never dreamed that he could attain, 
 struck her with astonishment and awakened in her 
 that feeling which she would not have believed he could 
 inspire. To find the old friend and comrade and also to 
 discover an interesting and unsuspected personality was 
 fascinating; driving back to her hotel she could not put 
 out of her mind a sense of sadness that there was to be 
 but one more day of this companionship. 
 
 The thought of the lonely dinner, the lonely evening 
 that awaited her, presented itself. She shrank from it 
 not so much from the loneliness as from the thoughts that 
 she knew would surely come to her with loneliness. As 
 they drove up to the hotel, she said with sudden appeal, 
 "George, won't you dine with me to-night?" 
 
 "With you?" he said, hesitating. 
 
 "Yes. I shall be alone. I I don't know why I 
 did n't tell you at first. Graham has gone to Poitiers to 
 see the army maneuvers. He won't be back to-nig}it. It 
 I 94 ]
 
 will be so lonely dining in the hotel unless you will 
 come." 
 
 "Of course I'll come how sweet of you to ask me! 
 But I don't understand left here all alone " 
 
 The sentence though incomplete was charged with 
 disapproval. 
 
 "Oh, you see, I was with the Vasmers But here we 
 are; I '11 tell you about it this evening. I've had a splen- 
 did day, George. And I shall look for you at seven." 
 
 George drove on to his hotel in a puzzled frame of 
 mind. It had struck him as odd that throughout the 
 day she seemed to be evading reference to her husband. 
 He had attributed it to a kind forbearance. Now he 
 wondered if there might be another cause of her reticence 
 if she and Graham were at odds. 
 
 At dinner, Rosamond, leaning forward and looking at 
 George with a mischievous happy light in her hazel eyes, 
 did not look like a grieving wife. Listening to her voice, 
 watching her lovely lips, glancing at the smooth white 
 neck and shoulders above the white-and-green of her 
 dress, George felt the old fascination stealing over him 
 and surrendered to it willingly. "Howl should like to 
 be sitting opposite you like this every night!" he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "I wish that you might be, for about a week," she 
 answered. 
 
 "Has your husband left you alone for a week?" 
 
 "It was a great opportunity that presented itself. A 
 
 French officer whom he knew in Cuba is chaperoning him; 
 
 he will see everything. And he left me with the Vasmers. 
 
 That very day they were summoned to London. I knew 
 
 [ 95 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 that Graham would hurry back to me if he knew 
 so I have n't told him that I'm alone." 
 
 "Why not? Do you enjoy being alone?" 
 
 "No; it's perfectly horrid." 
 
 "It isn't right to leave your husband in ignorance. 
 You say that he would come to you at once; you should 
 let him." 
 
 "You don't understand his interest in these military 
 matters. He was so delighted to have this chance to 
 study the French tactics. I don't want him to be dis- 
 appointed." 
 
 George was silent. He felt that such a breach in the 
 honeymoon justified his suspicion of the husband's selfish- 
 ness. He suggested that they might go to some theater. 
 Rosamond said that she would rather sit with him and 
 talk. So they had their coffee in the courtyard, between 
 the palms and the cool plashing fountain. While they 
 talked, the sultriness of the evening grew heavier; pres- 
 ently there was a lightning flash and thunder rolled in 
 the distance; then came the first drops of rain. They 
 retreated to the arcade; the rain poured down in a sudden 
 deluge on palms and gravel walks, trampled with tiny 
 feet on the roofs, and gushed with an eager gurgling from 
 the pipes; the little fountain could no longer be heard. 
 Overhead rioted the lightning and thunder in their full 
 fury; the electric lights of the court and of the arcade 
 dwindled to a dim redness; within the hotel lamps and 
 candles began to twinkle. Lightning smeared the interior 
 of the court and vanished in a thunder crash again and 
 again and again. 
 
 "Would you feel safer inside?" George asked. 
 [ 96 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I don't want to go inside," Rosamond answered. 
 "Yet a thunderstorm does terrify me; I always feel as if 
 I wanted to cling to some one." 
 
 It was innocently said; and the next flash revealed her 
 with one hand nervously raised to her throat, the other 
 clasping hard the arm of her chair. With a sudden im- 
 pulse of protection George reached out and covered that 
 hand with his. Dear little hand, so soft and firm and 
 warm, so yielding and gentle like the girl herself! He 
 had never before held it so, and she did not withdraw 
 it from his grasp. They sat together silent, while rain 
 and lightning and thunder stormed before them. 
 
 Then as suddenly as it had come, the rain slackened, 
 the thunder rolled off into the distance. The mild and 
 unperturbed little fountain was again tinkling; cool 
 odors pervaded the court; Rosamond withdrew her 
 hand. 
 
 " I 'm silly to be afraid," she said. " I have always been 
 so in thunderstorms." 
 
 "I liked having you afraid." 
 
 There was an awkward silence; each felt that the other 
 hovered on the brink of speech. Rosamond knew that 
 she had regained all her sovereignty. His hand had quiv- 
 ered when it closed on hers; she knew the pressure of 
 eagerness and trembling love. So for a few weeks had her 
 husband often pressed her hand ; lately when he had been 
 in an affectionate mood, he had smoothed and stroked it 
 with the flaccid contentment of accustomed possession. 
 She knew how bitterly she rebelled against such unexcited 
 appropriation of her person, how much it meant to her to 
 feel that she could impart a wilder impulse to a lover's 
 [ 97 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 heart. And George Brandon felt that she was drawing 
 him whither he did not know and did not care; he loved 
 her, and her husband neglected her; let fate take its 
 course. 
 
 "Ah," she said, "you go back to America to-morrow!" 
 
 "Do you wish me to stay?" 
 
 "I couldn't urge that. But this day has been so 
 pleasant! And I had thought it would be so dreary!" 
 
 "Lookup!" 
 
 The crescent moon had swum out placidly from the 
 broken clouds. The water dripping more leisurely from 
 the eaves had now a placid sound as placid as that of 
 the unperturbed fountain. 
 
 "Lookup at that moon," said George. "And think a 
 moment and then tell me what you would have me 
 do." 
 
 She raised her eyes, and he possessed himself again of 
 her hand; she yielded it to his pressure. But when she 
 looked round at him, she withdrew it. 
 
 "I'll stay if you want me," he said. 
 
 "I should n't ask it and you've made all your en- 
 gagements." 
 
 "They're easily canceled." 
 
 "It would n't do to cancel that with Dr. Armazet." 
 
 "No doubt he would give me a week's grace." 
 
 "Do you think he would? Oh, I'm so selfish! I do 
 want you to stay. We could have such a good time." 
 
 "I will cable to Dr. Armazet in the morning," said 
 George. "It will be splendid to have a week with you 
 all to myself." 
 
 Tingling and thrilling still from the touch of her soft 
 [ 98 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 hand, from the music of her voice, from the confession of 
 her eagerness and her dependence, he could not look 
 beyond the seven bright days. 
 
 But during his walk back to his hotel late that evening, 
 he underwent a reaction of mood. Sanity returned to 
 him. He was by no means sure that Dr. Annazet would 
 hold a place open that had been bestowed with some dis- 
 trust of the applicant's stability. Indeed, Rosamond's 
 willingness that George should make for her pleasure 
 what must in any event be a considerable sacrifice ren- 
 dered the sacrifice already burdensome. In a foolishly 
 romantic moment he had offered it; ah, but she should 
 have had strength enough to decline it. Just that she 
 might be amused for a week, she was lightly letting him 
 imperil his one great chance for a career. 
 
 She, poor girl, was weak, no doubt, yet she had con- 
 sented to his suggestion from less trivial motives than he 
 had thought. He was the man who had loved her longest 
 and most constantly, whom from her young girlhood she 
 had vaguely supposed she might some day marry, and 
 on whom, in a time of aberration, she had forever closed 
 the door. He united her with what had been sweet and 
 winning in her past; she had treated him cruelly and he 
 loved her still ! He offered her a week of happiness such 
 as perhaps she might never again know, and she accepted 
 it, not lightly, but with an eager and wistful heart.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF AN EXCURSION 
 
 ROSAMOND found that she had embarked upon a 
 course that required her to deceive her husband. 
 She had promised to write him daily letters. Now that 
 she had George with her each day she did not wish to 
 hasten Graham's return ; and she was sure that she would 
 if she informed him of her situation. If she did not write 
 at all, Graham would probably be telegraphing to find 
 out the reason for her silence; he might even come posting 
 to Paris. So she wrote to him every evening, even as she 
 had promised, without ever mentioning George's name 
 or the fact that the Vasmers had gone to London. 
 "Tuesday we went to Fontainebleau," she wrote 
 knowing how he would interpret the word "we." By 
 using it consistently in all her letters and never bringing 
 in a name, she was able to give an accurate and at the 
 same time misleading record of her movements. Doing 
 this, she sank in her own estimation; for very shame she 
 could not bring herself to read over one of the letters that 
 she thus equivocally indited. She was fully determined 
 to free her conscience as soon as Graham came back; she 
 would explain to him why she had chosen to deceive him; 
 that she had not wished to interrupt his interesting mili- 
 tary observations. After all, her course was fundament- 
 ally innocent and harmless even if superficially culpable; 
 she did not apprehend any difficulty in demonstrating 
 this to Graham. 
 
 I 100 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Fontainebleau and Versailles and Meudon, drives 
 through the Bois, and pleasant letterings so the days 
 slipped by. If Graham and the time of reckoning had 
 not lurked in the background, these would have been for 
 Rosamond very delightful days. For George, too, if 
 Graham had not been an existing and, even though 
 absent, an obtrusive fact, these would have been de- 
 lightful days. The compunctions that he had felt over 
 the possible sacrifice of an auspicious professional oppor- 
 tunity soon vanished. The situation in which he found 
 himself was baffling and bewildering, but it was exciting. 
 This young bride, deserted and neglected on her honey- 
 moon, had fallen under his protection and had more 
 nearly fallen in love with him than ever before. Why 
 had she married Rappallo? George could swear to him- 
 self that she was regretting it. Why had she married 
 Rappallo? Only because, like so many other young 
 girls, she did not know herself, and had followed the sud- 
 den and subtle promptings of an excited moment instead 
 of the calm guidance that she might have derived from a 
 contemplation of the faithful years. And he found that 
 he was faithful to her still; there was no one else in all 
 the world who could have such power of enchantment 
 over him. Every evening she had to dismiss him, he 
 lingered so abidingly. "Now you must say good-night; 
 I must get at my letters." And then she would add, " But 
 do come early to-morrow, so that we can have a good 
 long day together." She was always gay and high- 
 spirited; vapors fled before her sunny laughter: "Play 
 with me and I 'm happy ; play with me and be happy," 
 said her merry cordial eyes. She fascinated and en- 
 [ 101 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 chanted and inflamed him. It seemed to him that she 
 had gladly forgotten all about her husband, was packing 
 the days as full as possible in order the more completely 
 to forget. 
 
 The day of their excursion to Chantilly, the fifth day 
 of their week, a telegram was put into George's hand as 
 he was leaving his hotel. It conveyed Dr. Armazet's an- 
 nouncement that he would be unable to hold the position 
 open for Dr. Brandon. 
 
 George reddened as if he had been struck across the 
 eyes. Mad rebellion flamed in him. The gate to an hon- 
 orable career was closed; he was cut off from his oppor- 
 tunity to lead a life of usefulness but there was one per- 
 son whom he still might live to serve. Let her but turn 
 rebel with him; she loved him now; let her but take the 
 step; was not love that, looking before leaping, still chose 
 to leap, the noblest, greatest love? How they could cher- 
 ish each other for such glorious defiance! They need 
 never return to America; in Europe they could be suffi- 
 cient to themselves. He cast the fragments of Dr. Ar- 
 mazet's message over the parapet of the bridge to float 
 away down the Seine. 
 
 Passing up the Rue de la Paix, he glanced at the jewel- 
 ers' windows with an aroused interest. What a pleasure 
 to bestow decorations on Rosamond, to have her receive 
 them from his hand ! A heart-shaped aquamarine pend- 
 ant took his eye; if ever he might give her presents, that 
 should be the first; he could see it lying cool against the 
 soft whiteness of her neck. He entered the shop and 
 asked the price of it; he examined it and put it down 
 reluctantly. Of course she would not accept jewelry 
 [ 102 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 from him. But no sooner was he outside the shop than 
 he was again possessed with the desire to offer her this 
 tribute. 
 
 Looking at his watch, he decided that he had just 
 time; he drove to his banker's. When he arrived at 
 Rosamond's hotel five minutes later than the appointed 
 hour, the pendant was in his pocket, and his heart was 
 beating spiritedly. 
 
 She came down to him, smiling and gay in her blue 
 linen suit and hat bright with nodding cornflowers. 
 " What a fine spree we '11 have ! " she said. " I feel excited 
 at going to a new place a regular journey ! " 
 
 "I feel excited, too," he replied boldly. "This week 
 is making me appreciate more than ever what a honey- 
 moon with you might have been." 
 
 "Ah, then we have been much too nice to each other!" 
 she said. " But let 's not cloud the day with any unhappy 
 thoughts." 
 
 He saw that he had alarmed her, put her on her guard; 
 his stupidity and her quickness to take the defensive 
 alike galled him. And in that condition of mind, the dis- 
 appointment that he had just sustained through Dr. 
 Armazet's cable asserted itself more keenly; he could not 
 long pretend to himself that he did not care. Soreness 
 at the loss of the opportunity that had made him, until 
 this unlucky week, cheerful and happy, grew and spread 
 within him during the journey to Chantilly; he sat silent, 
 dwelling on his folly and his fate; he exerted himself but 
 little to entertain his companion. And she had brought 
 this disaster on him, quite wantonly; but she should never 
 know. 
 
 [ 103 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "You're not being very nice to me this morning, 
 George." 
 
 "I thought from what you said some time ago that you 
 did n't want me to be." 
 
 "But I do, really. I love it." 
 
 "That means you love me." 
 
 "Oh!" She shrank back into the corner of her seat 
 and looked at him with startled eyes. "Have I done 
 anything that gives you an excuse to say that?" 
 
 "My dear Rosamond, why should I not say it? There 
 were times before you were married when I felt that you 
 really loved me a little, even though you persistently 
 denied it times when I knew that if you would only 
 give yourself to me you would soon love me with all 
 your heart. Now you have had your experience of 
 marriage with another man and you love me now 
 more than you ever did before!" 
 
 "No, no!" she cried desperately. "I don't, I'm sure 
 I don't! And and you mustn't put such ideas into 
 my head; it's wrong of you to talk to me so." 
 
 Shrinking in her corner she looked at him frightened 
 and appealing. His chivalry was touched. 
 
 "It would be if I did n't believe that I could offer you 
 greater happiness," he said. 
 
 "You are inviting me to desert my husband!" 
 
 "Who seems already to have deserted you!" 
 
 "He had left me with friends; I urged him to go. You 
 misunderstand very much, George, if you think my hus- 
 band is unkind to me." 
 
 "Not unkind, no. But his love for you was n't the real 
 thing, any more than your love for him. And now you 
 [ 104 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 both realize it. He 's glad to get away, you 're both glad 
 and hurt to be left. And you 've made me feel that you Ve 
 had more companionship with me in the five days I Ve 
 been here than you 've had with your husband in your 
 whole honeymoon." 
 
 " It 's easier to be companionable with a person for five 
 days than for two months. Especially when you're not 
 seeing anybody else at all. Two months from now I'm 
 sure that you and I should each of us be glad of a little 
 vacation." 
 
 "Then you tell me that I'm quite mistaken, and that 
 you are as a matter of fact entirely devoted to your hus- 
 band and care nothing about me? " 
 
 "That's the way I mean it to be," she answered 
 firmly. 
 
 "We mean so many things that we can't bring to pass! 
 I meant to put you out of my life entirely and here I 
 am suggesting that you remodel it for me! You meant 
 to adore your husband with an increasing devotion 
 and two months after marriage you are tired of him, 
 bored by him, annoyed with him and he is reveling in 
 an opportunity to escape from you! No, I can't see it, 
 Rosamond. That romance is played out, never to be 
 revived; you have the husk of it left, the memory to con- 
 trast with the reality and to make each day more bitter 
 than the last a chafing toleration for each other at 
 best instead of freer confidence and quicker understand- 
 ing. You and he for life on opposite sides of the table, 
 or you and I for life there : if you could make the choice 
 now, Rosamond, which should you choose? " 
 
 "I don't know," she answered. "Sometimes I should 
 [ 105 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 like one and sometimes the other. I'm two persons, I 
 think. And that's all I want to say about this subject. 
 You make me feel very disloyal to Graham, when I'm 
 not really. I don't like you so well when you try to dis- 
 parage him. I 'm very glad I 'm married to him very 
 glad, indeed. And I wish I were with him now." 
 
 She no longer was shrinking back in her corner. She 
 sat up straight and looked out of the window, and a little 
 spot of angry color glowed on each cheek. 
 
 "Yes," said George. "And when you are with him and 
 I am somewhere else, you will be wishing that you were 
 with me. And wherever I am, I shall be wishing that 
 more than you can ever do." 
 
 The sincerity of the speech softened her. She turned 
 to him and said, "I've made you unhappy, George, and 
 I 'm sorry. I think of all those pleasant days when you 
 were courting me how sweet they were! I feel that 
 something should have come from them I feel almost 
 guilty because I did n't marry you. And, on the other 
 hand, when I think of Graham's courting, I know that I 
 could n't have done otherwise than I did. There is asso- 
 ciated with that a holiness that is simply inexpressible. 
 It is the thing that makes me wonder how any woman 
 can ever marry more than once." 
 
 "You would sacrifice your whole life on the altar of 
 a memory!" 
 
 "If it were necessary. But you don't understand, 
 George. I love Graham. I can't help loving you, too, 
 a little, but I love Graham. You must n't lose sight of 
 that." 
 
 George looked at her steadily. "And these last days 
 [ 106 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 have made me perfectly sure that you love me. You may 
 not be ready to admit it now; but you will know it when 
 I am gone and you are once more with Graham." 
 
 She did not make a reply. The train drew into Chan- 
 tilly.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE END OF AN EXCURSION 
 
 THE Pelouse that morning presented a lively appear- 
 ance. It was only two weeks before the autumn 
 races; the jockeys in their colors were exercising the 
 horses; the men and women of the English colony sat in 
 the grand stand or strolled upon the oval. There was an 
 air of serious, even momentous preparation and of ob- 
 servant scrutiny; if a groom ran his hand down over a 
 horse's leg or if a rider stroked his beast's mane, the act 
 seemed neither casual nor affectionate, but an item in the 
 formula of training. 
 
 Rosamond and George paused on their way to the 
 chateau and looked on at the proceedings. 
 
 "I wish Graham might ride in the races," said Rosa- 
 mond, as they moved away. "That is what I should like 
 to see. He rides better than anyone else that I ever 
 saw." 
 
 "I have heard that it was his appearance on horseback 
 that first captivated you," remarked George. 
 
 "Gossip was accurate for once. The first time I saw 
 him was at a rough-riding drill. Grace, gallantry, daring, 
 control was it any wonder if a girl noticed him? " 
 
 "There is no doubt that he is a good horseman." 
 
 They walked on in a stiff silence. George smarted 
 under a sense of rebuff. He felt that she was trying to 
 keep alive a sentiment for her husband by unfair means. 
 [ 108 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 To dwell on those intoxicating moments of first love was 
 to deny reason a hearing. 
 
 But George could not long be sullen, least of all in 
 Rosamond's company and in such surroundings. No 
 sooner had they passed through the great gate of the 
 castle grounds than his spirits began to assert themselves 
 buoyantly. His lively comments in the picture gallery 
 drew from her replies of an equal gayety; his enthusiasm 
 and his prejudices made him a good companion. What 
 was especially pleasant to Rosamond was his leisureli- 
 ness; he seemed not in a hurry to proceed from one room 
 to another; even more than she he seemed to linger 
 before the old canvases, and lingering to receive impres- 
 sions. And now she found that what she had once con- 
 demned in him as a tendency towards irresponsible and 
 feminine dawdling was an interesting and attractive 
 characteristic. 
 
 " You are a good person to go through a museum with," 
 she said. 
 
 "And you are a good person to go anywhere with," he 
 replied. 
 
 Such remarks as that pleased her. So, watching her, 
 he continued, "There's no doubt about it; if you are n't 
 bored or annoyed by a person hi a picture gallery, you 
 probably won't be bored or annoyed by him anywhere 
 else. And conversely. The dismayed couples who have 
 arrived at an understanding of each other in the picture 
 galleries of Europe! Haven't you seen them?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," Rosamond answered. "I've seen them." 
 (" Seen them ! " thought George to himself, underscoring 
 the verb.) "But," she went on after a moment, "it's 
 [ 109 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 easy to imagine too much. People who get married usu- 
 ally do it on some basis of knowledge of each other. 
 Probably unpleasant little surprises do occur; but if 
 they 're sensible they fall back on what drew them to- 
 gether in the first place; they're very foolish if they let 
 small differences in taste drive them apart." 
 
 "It is n't always a matter of letting themselves be 
 driven apart. Sometimes it's a matter of pretending 
 that they have n't been when they know they have. 
 And it's always a question whether it's worth any- 
 body's while to lead a life of pretense." 
 
 They proceeded through the gallery rather soberly. 
 George felt that he had made an impression upon her; 
 in her eyes he caught the troubled look of uncertainty. 
 He asked himself if he were playing the part of a cad; it 
 was a perplexing question. The seduction of a woman 
 had always seemed to him the basest of all a gentle- 
 man's amusements; could it be that he was now engaged 
 in an attempt to practice it? No, for what made se- 
 duction base was the levity, the inconstancy, the cold- 
 hearted selfishness associated with it, and he was guilty 
 of none of those vices. If Rosamond had been happy 
 with her husband, he would never have tried to detach 
 her. Since she was not happy, was it not right that he 
 who loved her should try to make her happy? And for 
 happiness a woman's first requirement was to be loved. 
 But could that compensate her for the possible loss of 
 friends, for the grief and mortification of her family, foS 
 her disgrace in the eyes of the world, for expatriation 
 and isolation? With such odds against him, how could 
 he hope to bestow happiness upon her? And if he could 
 I HO 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 not hope to do that and yet strove to win her away 
 from her husband, was he not, indeed, an execrable 
 cad? 
 
 The question impaled him, but he wriggled himself 
 free from it. Whatever course he followed, unhappi- 
 ness for her, so long as she remained united with her 
 husband, was inevitable. Rappallo neglected her, and 
 she was not a woman who could endure neglect. There 
 would in time be separation, humiliation, and probably 
 divorce. She would be a woman disillusioned and em- 
 bittered all the more if the man who might have 
 saved her chose instead the part of conventional and 
 cowardly virtue. 
 
 And the thing could be managed. A high-spirited 
 girl, abandoned by her husband on their honeymoon, 
 would not be without sympathy and support if she de- 
 clined to return to him. Divorce would follow; then the 
 true lover could claim his own. 
 
 The thoughts formulated themselves slowly in the 
 intervals between comments on pictures, exclamations 
 over gems. When George saw Rosamond poring with 
 such interest and delight over the jewelry of the Condes, 
 he bethought him hopefully of the small case in his 
 pocket. He felt that she would be pleased; he had a 
 desire always to please her. 
 
 They drove back to the hotel opposite the race-course 
 for luncheon. There was some discussion about the 
 train they should take returning to Paris. There was 
 one at three o'clock, another at five, and another at nine. 
 George rejected the idea of taking one of the earlier 
 trains. He proposed that they drive about the country, 
 [ HI 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 go to Senlis and see the Cathedral, and take the even- 
 ing train from there. 
 
 "But it gets to Paris so late," protested Rosamond. 
 
 "Well, why not? " Then he drew out his little packet 
 and laid it on the table. "I bought you a wedding 
 present this morning; here it is." 
 
 "Oh, George, you did n't! How nice you are to me!" 
 She drew the packet towards her and looked at him 
 with sparkling eyes. "What can it be? I can't guess. 
 Shall I open it now right now?" 
 
 "As you please," said George; "it's nothing very 
 exciting." 
 
 She delayed about opening it, tantalizing herself with 
 guesses. They were all tactfully modest guesses; George 
 smiled benignantly. 
 
 "Then it's a little enamel box," she declared with an 
 air of assurance. "One of those sweet little things with 
 Cupids on the cover. Or else it 's no, I can't guess 
 what it is; I must open it at once." 
 
 When the aquamarine lay revealed, she gave an ex- 
 clamation of delight, and then immediately one of un- 
 certainty. "How lovely! How perfectly lovely! But, 
 oh, George! I I don't think I ought to accept such a 
 wonderful gift do you?" 
 
 "I should n't have given it if I had thought that." 
 
 "You were so sweet to get it for me. And it's beau- 
 tiful; it's enchanting. But jewelry I don't feel as if I 
 ought Graham might feel please forgive me, but 
 it's almost too personal a kind of present; isn't it, 
 George?" 
 
 "That's exactly why I got it. I wanted to give you 
 1 112 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 something for yourself something that could n't pos- 
 sibly be for Graham, too." 
 
 "How lovely it is!" She held it so that a ray of sun- 
 light fell on it through the window; she placed it against 
 her bosom and looked down at it with captivated eyes. 
 "I wish Graham were n't so conventional. I know he'll 
 think I ought n't to accept such a gift from any man but 
 himself." 
 
 "The tyranny of Graham!" said George. 
 
 "He really won't object when he finds it gives me 
 pleasure." She slipped the chain round her neck and 
 fastened it, and caressed the stone with her fingers. 
 
 And soon it was settled that they should not take 
 either the three o'clock or the five o'clock train back to 
 Paris, but that they should drive to Senlis. 
 
 Rosamond was still too excited about her new posses- 
 sion to be much interested in anything else. During the 
 drive she toyed with it and smiled on it, caught the 
 light with it and exclaimed with pleasure over it. George 
 remembered that whenever in the past he had made her 
 little presents of flowers her delight had been similarly 
 expressive and encouraging. And there was no insincer- 
 ity about it; she was absorbed in pleased contemplation 
 and in happy gratitude. That she was in such simple 
 ways so unspoiled a child touched George; indeed, her 
 blithe immaturity was to him not only appealing but 
 enchanting. It made him the more eager to tempt her, 
 even while he knew that it made his responsibility the 
 greater. 
 
 "You flatter me, seeming to like my little present," 
 he said, laughing as she fondled it. 
 [ 113 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I love it. I've always wanted just such a large 
 beautiful aquamarine. Graham does n't care much 
 about stones or jewelry," she added somewhat wistfully. 
 
 "Rosamond," said George suddenly, "listen. Give 
 me your hand a moment just a moment; don't be 
 reluctant there. Do you remember how you let me 
 take it during the thunderstorm? You turned to me 
 then as if for protection; you don't know what a sweet, 
 uplifted feeling that gave me. You don't know how 
 lovingly the sensation of this little hand lying in mine 
 has lingered in my memory, how much it means to me 
 that once it lay in mine. Without you, nothing seems 
 worth striving for; with you, it would be such happi- 
 ness to work!" 
 
 "But, George, you mustn't talk like this." She 
 pulled her hand away resolutely. "You must face 
 facts, and be a man." 
 
 "Because I am a man and love you, I say this. You 
 know I love you as no other man ever did or does or can. 
 And you have made me feel in this past week that you 
 love me. Have you the courage to face that fact? " 
 
 "I must deny that it is a fact." 
 
 "It will, of course, be the last thing that your lips will 
 acknowledge. But do actions have no meaning? " 
 
 "What actions of mine could be so misconstrued?" 
 
 "All of them since the day we met by the Institut. 
 You 've been as dependent on seeing me, on being with 
 me, in these days, as I have been dependent on being 
 with you. If it were not so, you would hardly have 
 urged me to stay at the risk of losing my appoint- 
 ment " 
 
 [ 114 1
 
 "You did not give me to understand that there was 
 any risk," she said sharply; and he bit his lip at the 
 indiscretion into which his excitement had hurried him. 
 She looked at him gravely for a moment and then asked, 
 "Do you mean that you have lost your appointment?" 
 
 "Oh, you mustn't catch me up so!" he protested 
 laughingly ; but he did not dare to attempt equivocation 
 under her steady eyes. "Well, yes," he acknowledged, 
 " I have lost it. But that does n't make any difference 
 really." He was alarmed by the expression of shock 
 and suffering on her face. "There are plenty of ap- 
 pointments everywhere for a man who why, in Paris 
 for instance; the American doctors in Paris there's 
 no better opening for a man of the right sort. We could 
 live in Paris, Rosamond, and " 
 
 "Oh, you make me ashamed!" she cried under her 
 breath. "Stop!" 
 
 His cheeks flamed as red as hers. 
 
 In front the driver, who understood no English, 
 turned and besought their admiration of the arched 
 viaduct over the Nonette, now rising into view. The 
 unresponsiveness of his passengers caused him to settle 
 back in his seat stolidly. Monsieur and Madame were 
 having a quarrel; ah, well, thank the good God, a quarrel 
 with his wife seldom affected an American's liberality. 
 
 "I see it all now," Rosamond said coldly. "When 
 you had lost your own future, then you decided that you 
 would also try to sacrifice me." 
 
 "Rosamond!" he cried in reproach. "To make such 
 a charge as that against me who have loved you for 
 so long!" 
 
 [ 115 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Yet her words caused him deep humiliation, for he 
 knew in his heart that they were a bitter statement of 
 the truth. 
 
 "I have injured you, and you have revenged yourself 
 upon me," continued Rosamond implacably. She 
 leaned forward and addressed the driver, bidding him 
 turn back to Chantilly. 
 
 He obeyed the order in surprise; meanwhile George 
 took out his watch. 
 
 "It is of no use," he suggested mildly. "You see 
 already we have lost the train. We might as well go on 
 to Senlis; we can get no earlier train." 
 
 "Oh, very well," she said. "But this is intolerable." 
 
 George leaned forward and told the driver to turn 
 back to Senlis. He obeyed impassively; eh, but this was 
 a quarrel, indeed ! Would Monsieur and Madame keep 
 him turning about and about in the middle of the 
 road? 
 
 " It is not like you to be unfair to any one, Rosamond," 
 said George. " I have loved you long and faithfully, and 
 I claim the right to be heard. You dismissed me again 
 and again in my courtship, yet each time, as it seemed 
 to me, with a decreasing assurance. And so, when you 
 sent me away last winter, I entertained the hope that I 
 would return to find you had at last realized that I was 
 as indispensable to your happiness as you were to mine. 
 Instead of that you took advantage of my absence to 
 imagine yourself suddenly, violently, impetuously in 
 love with a sudden, violent, and impetuous suitor. The 
 friendship and the courtship of years could not; stand 
 beside the romance of a month; love should be exciting,
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 marriage should be dramatic and so I came home just 
 in time to see you married. Now, three months later, 
 we meet, and I learn certain things. The romance of a 
 month is over, and you are experiencing the chagrin of 
 the greatest mistake that man or woman can make; you 
 know already the misery of a mismating, and you are 
 facing a future which holds no romance and no ideal- 
 ism. And your husband has left you on your honey- 
 moon in order to pursue undisturbed his singular avoca- 
 tion. From that fact I conclude I do not speak with 
 intentional cruelty that his marriage is exactly as 
 satisfactory to him as yours is to you. Only, a satisfac- 
 tory and happy marriage is less important to a man than 
 to a woman; your husband's selfishness will increase, 
 and his cheerfulness will not grow perceptibly less. But 
 a woman is of the sex that sacrifices and suffers; and for 
 a man whom you no longer love you will perform ser- 
 vices that are no longer joy, and you will weep in secret 
 and smile before his face. Marriage for a woman is 
 always a martyrdom, but it may be a martyrdom that 
 puts the light of heaven always hi her eyes, or one that 
 reveals only the torture of her soul. Already you have 
 betrayed to me which kind you are enduring; come to 
 me, Rosamond, and God help me sometimes at least 
 the light of heaven shall shine ! " 
 
 " Never. Not even if I loved you with my whole heart. 
 The thing is unthinkable." 
 
 "I confess," said George, "that when there are no 
 children I cannot regard the married state as so sacred 
 so inescapable " 
 
 " I do not wish to escape from it. Do you not under- 
 [ 117 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 stand? If a woman cannot go to a man with joy, she 
 had better not go to him at all." 
 
 "And you are very sure, Rosamond, that you could 
 never come to me joyfully not if we waited apart, you 
 in America, I in Paris ; no, let me put it this way; 
 suppose that when at last you were free and I went joy- 
 fully to you, would you not welcome me?" 
 
 "George," she said, "I will not allow you to talk any 
 more about my freeing myself from my husband. I real- 
 ize that I have done very wrong in showing such pleas- 
 ure in feeling such pleasure in your society; fortu- 
 nately it will never again be possible for me to commit 
 this wrong. The understanding at which we have arrived 
 this afternoon is complete. I have let you assume that I 
 do not love my husband; I mean to atone for my dis- 
 loyalty. I love him the more because he is not the sort of 
 man who is forever wooing my love, because he has 
 wider interests and grows restless in inactivity. And I 
 care much less for you because you have tried to take 
 advantage of my flightiness and my folly, instead of 
 protecting me against my foolish self." 
 
 "Your foolish self! Your real self, your adorable self, 
 not this puritanical, conventional, hypocritical self!" 
 
 She kept a disdainful silence, and the next moment 
 he was supplicating her again. "Good Heavens, Rosa- 
 mond, I don't mean to be abusive. Overlook my lan- 
 guage for the sake of my love!" 
 
 But to his whimsical smile which she usually found 
 attractive, she presented an uncompromising visage. 
 
 "Whatever justification you may have had for 
 thinking that such speeches are agreeable to me, it 
 [ H8 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 exists no longer. It must be clear to you that my hus- 
 band's love is the only love that I desire or that I will 
 accept." 
 
 "Very well," said George, "I leave Paris in the 
 morning." 
 
 The matter being thus settled, they drove on in si- 
 lence. By the time that they reached Senlis, George had 
 apparently regained his customary spirits and his eye 
 for happenings along the road. At the Cathedral he dis- 
 missed the carriage; the coachman departed rejoicing 
 that Monsieur and Madame had effected a reconcilia- 
 tion. With a seemingly unabated interest George led 
 Rosamond from point to point, calling on her to admire 
 the tower and to smile at the ornamentations of the por- 
 tals, conducted her on an exploration of the narrow, 
 winding streets of the little town, and showed an anti- 
 quarian's zeal in discovering ancient Roman and early 
 Merovingian remains. She strove not to be behind him 
 in spirit, even while undecided whether to admire or 
 despise such resiliency as he displayed. 
 
 They dined cheerfully in a little hotel, and took the 
 nine o'clock train back to Paris. George had become 
 again the same pleasant companion that he had always 
 been. He seemed to have reentered contentedly the old 
 cage of good-fellowship after his unsuccessful effort to 
 reach a more tempting perch. Only when they were 
 driving up to Rosamond's hotel did he say, 
 
 "This ends it then, Rosamond?" 
 
 "Ends what?" she asked bluntly. 
 
 "My romance." 
 
 "That has a ring of sentimentality. Come, George,
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 take me into the hotel; we'll shake hands and part 
 and meet again friends." 
 
 At the foot of the staircase, where he was to leave her, 
 they encountered Graham Rappallo. Instant joyfulness 
 swept agitation from Graham's countenance. 
 
 "Thank the Lord, Rosamond ! " he cried. " I 've been 
 frightfully worried about you!" He nodded to George, 
 and continued, "I got back at noon, and I've simply 
 been watching the door all day. I found I could n't stay 
 away from you any longer." 
 
 "Oh, poor Graham! Oh, I should have been at the 
 station to meet you!" 
 
 George, waiting impatiently to take his departure, 
 viewed these affectionate greetings with cynical eyes. 
 
 " I never should have stayed away if I had known you 
 were all alone," proceeded Graham. "Why did n't you 
 tell me about the Vasmers? I found a telegram for 
 you from Dorothy too bad. Her father died last 
 night." 
 
 "Oh!" Rosamond cried out in pain. "And I should 
 have gone to her at once! She and her poor mother 
 all alone! Telegraph now, Graham, say that we'll 
 start from Paris in the morning." 
 
 Graham hesitated. "Are you sure that they'll want 
 us? There probably won't be anything we can do 
 
 "I'm going to London in the morning," George said. 
 "I'll telegraph Miss Vasmer and offer my services." 
 
 "That's first-rate," Graham replied. "Probably 
 
 you '11 find all arrangements made, but it will no doubt 
 
 be a comfort to them to feel that you are at hand ready 
 
 to help. Under the circumstances, since Dr. Brandon 
 
 [ 120 ]
 
 will be there, I don't think you need feel that you must 
 go, Rosamond." 
 
 "But I do feel it!" Rosamond exclaimed, distress 
 sharpening her voice. " I will telegraph to her now; and, 
 Graham, you arrange about our starting first thing in 
 the morning." 
 
 "Very likely, then, I shall see you again," said 
 George. "If not, good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye." She took his hand for a moment, yet 
 hardly glanced at him. "Oh, poor Dorothy!" 
 
 She moved away to send her telegram, her husband 
 went to make inquiries about trains, and George, in a 
 somewhat bitter and disillusioned frame of mind, passed 
 out into the street. 
 
 "She does n't really care for her husband, that's cer- 
 tain," he thought. "And she does n't seem to care for 
 me. I believe the only affection she's capable of is for 
 persons of her own sex." 
 
 But he did not really believe it; he found that in his 
 heart he could not disparage her, however much he 
 tried.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE AQUAMARINE PENDANT 
 
 WHEN Graham came up to his room after making 
 the desired inquiries, he found Rosamond al- 
 ready preparing for departure. Excitement and agita- 
 tion had aggravated a certain native disorderliness; 
 trunk-trays and open bags lay scattered about the floor, 
 clothes were strewn upon the beds and heaped upon 
 sofa and chairs, and Rosamond moved about, snatch- 
 ing and tossing with a rapid hand. 
 
 "I telegraphed we would come by the first train in 
 the morning," she said. "When is it, Graham?" 
 
 "Seven o'clock; we'll arrive in London at five. 
 There's another at nine that will get us in only a few 
 hours later; we'd better take that " 
 
 "No, no. I feel that I must get to Dorothy at the 
 first possible moment." 
 
 Graham had been in the saddle for two nights. He 
 did not mention this, but he felt aggrieved, rebellious. 
 The proceeding seemed to him thoroughly irrational 
 and unnecessary. 
 
 "Really," he said, "I don't see the need of such haste. 
 We shall have to be up half the night packing; much 
 better to do the thing at leisure and take the nine o'clock 
 train." 
 
 "You've been away, Graham, pursuing your own 
 pleasure; it seems to me that you might do this first 
 [ 122 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 thing that I ask. If you can't understand why I feel 
 that I must get to Dorothy at once 
 
 "Oh, all right, my dear; since you 've so set your heart 
 on it " 
 
 Graham, with a pretence at cheerfulness, began to 
 pack. He passed and repassed close beside Rosamond; 
 she seemed more than ordinarily unconscious of his 
 presence, indifferent to it. In reality she was wishing 
 that he would stoop and kiss her, ever so casually, as he 
 passed. When he failed to do this, she thought bitterly 
 that not so long ago he could not resist bestowing on her 
 such tokens of affection. She was aware that she had 
 turned her cheek invitingly and that he had ignored the 
 opportunity. The privilege that he had won, he no 
 longer prized; doubtless it was the way with men. 
 Doubtless it would have been so with George. Yet she 
 must be fair to George. He had been faithful and con- 
 stant year in, year out, through all rebuffs and disap- 
 pointments. And Graham's capacity for loyalty she 
 had never tested; she had given herself too readily into 
 his hands. Whether or not there was some partial elec- 
 trical communication of her thoughts, Graham sud- 
 denly turned from the trunk that he had been filling, 
 stepped quickly to her side, and gave her the kiss that 
 she had craved- She pleased him, even startled him, by 
 her sudden quick, responsive hug and her cry, "Oh, 
 Graham, you love me, dear, you do love me!" 
 
 "Of course I do!" He kissed her again. "I should 
 have come to you at once I should n't have left you 
 alone an hour, if I had known. Poor little girl! How 
 long have you been here all alone?" 
 [ 123 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I haven't been alone very much, Graham. I met 
 George Brandon, and he and I kept each other from 
 being lonely." 
 
 "Well, I'm very grateful to Brandon for turning up 
 and entertaining you to-day. I suppose it was yester- 
 day that Mrs. Vasmer and Dorothy were called to Lon- 
 don?" 
 
 "No." Rosamond was acutely miserable; there was 
 nothing for it but to tell the truth. "The Vasmers went 
 away the same day you did." 
 
 "The same day ! Then you 've been alone here all this 
 time, and never let me know!" 
 
 She could not be sure whether amazement or disap- 
 proval were uppermost in his thought. 
 
 "I felt that it was n't necessary. I knew how much 
 you wanted to see the maneuvers." 
 
 "But your letters you wrote 'we' " 
 
 "It was to keep you from suspecting and rushing 
 back to me " 
 
 "You made all those expeditions by yourself?" 
 
 "No; George Brandon accompanied me." 
 
 "Oh! Then 'we' meant you and George Brandon, 
 though I would naturally think it referred to you and 
 the Vasmers?" 
 
 "Yes. You see, Graham, I felt there was no need of 
 your cutting short your trip " 
 
 "I never would have believed that you would deceive 
 me." He stood away and looked at her with cold and 
 doubting eyes; she shrank from this new, undreamed-of 
 expression on his face. "Was it entirely consideration 
 for me that kept you from telling the truth? " 
 [ 124 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "No, not entirely," she said, driven to desperation. 
 "It was something to feel free again free as I was be- 
 fore I was married." 
 
 "Was it prearranged between you and Brandon that 
 you should meet him here in Paris?" 
 
 "No. It was a chance meeting. I felt there was no 
 harm in our going about together." 
 
 "In short, you were enjoying my absence so well that 
 you were in no hurry to have me return." 
 
 "Indeed, I was very, very glad to see you to-night, 
 Graham." 
 
 Her head drooped, she felt incapable of resistance or 
 resentment, she was very tired. To be assailed in this 
 manner, after withstanding argument, entreaty, emo- 
 tion, all day, was more than she could bear. She felt 
 willing to say anything if only she could be released from 
 this inquisition. Her hand unconsciously sought the 
 blue stone lying against her breast. Her husband's eyes, 
 following the movement, were arrested by the object. 
 
 "That pendant," he said. "I don't remember seeing 
 that before. Is it something new? " 
 
 " George Brandon gave it to me to-day. It is his wed- 
 ding present to me." 
 
 "I don't like his taste in wedding presents." 
 
 She took off the stone and tossed it on the bed. "Very 
 well. I will return it to him." 
 
 Her submissiveness and her evident weariness touched 
 Graham. He came to her, put his arm round her, and 
 said gently, "Dearest, I don't mean to be harsh. We 
 are both tired; I have hardly slept for two nights, and 
 you look as if you had not. Our nerves are plucking at 
 I 125 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 us; we must n't go on like this. We must sleep. In the 
 morning, dearest, we well, we will make a fresh start." 
 
 He kissed her; she burst into tears; he stood with his 
 arms embracing her, vainly trying to soothe her. 
 
 "I don't know why I cry," she sobbed. "I'm un- 
 happy when you're away, Graham, and I'm unhappy 
 when you're here. Perhaps I ought never to have mar- 
 ried you oh, I wonder why, why we were in such 
 haste! We were n't suited to each other and George 
 Brandon oh, I know I loved him all along and 
 why, why did you ever come to take me from him ! " 
 
 She tore herself from his arms and flung herself face 
 down upon the bed. 
 
 To Graham, looking down at her quivering shoulders, 
 glancing from them to the disordered array of clothes 
 strewn about the room, the spectacle was for the mo- 
 ment exasperating. "Why, indeed!" was ready to take 
 wing from his lips, and be wafted upwards by wildly 
 tossed arms. But he held himself tense and silent, and 
 the black moment passed. 
 
 To angry desperation succeeded pity and tenderness, 
 and with them a flash of imaginative understanding. 
 " Poor tortured little heart ! " he said, and seating himself 
 beside her he stroked her shoulder. "You're a married 
 woman, and you wish you were a girl again so that 
 men could pursue and you could flee! It's only in love 
 that the pleasures of the chase are for the hunted. The 
 sight of an old suitor has set you tingling to be off 
 again. If only you would look up now, dearest, and 
 see that in your husband's eyes you are forever to be 
 wooed, forever to be won!" 
 
 [ 126 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Oh, Graham, it is n't true. You don't really love 
 me I don't really love you. Your interests are n't 
 mine. And since I 've been seeing George again, I know 
 that being with you your wife oh, it's humil- 
 iating to me I can't, I can't! Marriage is degrada- 
 tion, unless it's with the right man." 
 
 A fresh burst of sobs followed. Graham caressed the 
 shoulder in silence. 
 
 "Don't touch me. Please don't touch me, Graham." 
 
 He took his hand away. The aquamarine pendant 
 that had been flung on the bed slid down and rested 
 against Rosamond's hand. Feeling it, she clutched it 
 and threw it from her, out upon the floor. Graham 
 brought it back, folded it within her hand, and then 
 held the hand tight clasped. 
 
 "I was petty to feel so about the pretty stone," he 
 said. "I'm sorry. I think that soon you'll teach me to 
 like jewels. I want you to wear it I want you to wear 
 anything you like. It was nasty of me to say what I 
 did about Brandon's present. Unless you wear it I 
 shall feel that you have n't forgiven me." 
 
 "Oh, what difference does it make!" 
 
 "It will make a difference to my happiness." 
 
 "How can you talk of happiness! There's nothing 
 but misery, misery, misery. If you can be happy, how 
 little you must care about me! I can never be happy." 
 
 "You will be when you have a child." 
 
 "Oh, it's just that about marriage that I can't bear. 
 
 Not that I should dread having children ; I should love to 
 
 have children. But I shrink from you, Graham ; yes, since 
 
 seeing George again, I feel that I 'm degraded, polluted " 
 
 I 127 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Don't, don't, for God's sake!" The anguish in his 
 voice silenced her. She looked up at him, and seeing his 
 face contracted with pain was stricken with remorse; 
 she caught his hand to her lips and kissed it. At once 
 his arms were round her. "Oh, my darling, our mar- 
 riage is of the spirit." 
 
 "If I could always feel it! But when I see George 
 Brandon it comes over me that I might be sharing the 
 life of one who cares about healing and curing people. 
 Instead, I'm your wife." 
 
 "But the lawyer has human problems to deal with 
 and people to help. Is n't trying to remedy injustice 
 almost as worthy a work as trying to cure disease?" 
 
 "Is that what a lawyer does? But I had n't thought 
 much about you as a lawyer, Graham. You see, to me 
 you've only been a warrior." 
 
 He laughed a little ruefully. "That's an odd con- 
 ception." 
 
 "It's why I fell in love with you. So romantic, so 
 dashing and splendidly brave as you seemed. And of 
 course I still know that you are." 
 
 "Of course!" He pinched her ear playfully. 
 
 "Only it doesn't satisfy me now the way it did. 
 Wives of warriors are generally unhappy, are n't they 
 like Nelson's and Napoleon's." 
 
 "As a warrior I ought to feel flattered; as a husband 
 I don't." 
 
 "You 've been good to me always though sometimes 
 I feel that you don't care for me as you did." 
 
 "Ah, I'm afraid my desertion of you was a bad mis- 
 take. I thought that the circumstances justified it, that 
 [ 128 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 it could n't work harm. Of course I love you always, 
 dearest. Love when it 's of the spirit does n't grow less." 
 
 "It will if I am often so horrid. I realize that. Do 
 you like to kill, Graham? Why do you like to study ways 
 of doing it? It 's the contrast between that taste of yours 
 and the work the doctor does that pains me. I can't bear 
 to feel that my husband likes to dwell on what seems to 
 me unworthy." 
 
 "But I don't like to kill! Why, I never shot a deer; 
 I could n't. It was not craving to shed blood that sent 
 me to the war. It was, I admit, a desire for adven- 
 ture more perhaps than any patriotic motive; yes, 
 my motives were not the most worthy. But killing if 
 I killed anyone I don't know it; I would rather not know. 
 Of course in war one has to try. I'm interested in the 
 militia as a means of national defense. I believe in it. 
 I want to see it well trained, well drilled, well officered. 
 It develops the clerks and artisans and professional men 
 who form it gives them vigor and character and readi- 
 ness; to improve the militia seems to me in every way a 
 worthy study. But really and truly, Rosamond, I 'm 
 a man of peace ! " 
 
 She looked at him wonderingly, saw the appeal in his 
 gray eyes, the smile of tenderness. "Oh, I believe you 
 are!" she said. "How else could you be so sweet to me 
 when I 'm so horrid ! I 'm not good enough for you, Gra- 
 ham, but oh, I will try to be!" 
 
 And while he clasped her to his heart she besought 
 
 him, "You do love me, don't you, Graham? You don't 
 
 get tired of me, do you ? And you '11 always hold me tight, 
 
 whatever happens you'll never, never let me go?" 
 
 I 129 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Oh, I promise!" He spoke it joyously into her ear. 
 
 To Graham, seeing the recovered happiness in her 
 eyes, the episode was but one of many suggesting that 
 every wife has from time to time to be courted and con- 
 quered. She had made again the pleasant surrender 
 that he might frequently and at cost of disturbance and 
 anxiety have to compel. But in this he did not read his 
 wife aright. He was unaware that her soul had knelt 
 to him in humility, and then had risen to follow in a new 
 devotion.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MESSENGERS OF AID 
 
 IN the morning it no longer seemed to Rosamond of 
 the first importance that they should leave Paris 
 by the first train. Dorothy knew that they were coming 
 and in that knowledge might have some comfort. She 
 would probably not know, she would certainly not care, 
 if their arrival was delayed until the evening. So Rosa- 
 mond and Graham completed their preparations at 
 leisure and took the train from the Gare du Nord at 
 nine o'clock instead of at seven. 
 
 Rosamond wondered if George were on the train, if 
 he had taken the earlier train, if he would really go at 
 all. It seemed to her, on the whole, unlikely that he 
 would feel either impulse or obligation. His acquaint- 
 ance with the Vasmers was slight, his promise given 
 the night before might easily be reconsidered, especially 
 in view of the certainty that she and Graham would do 
 all that could be done for the comfort of the distressed 
 ladies. Rosamond was disposed to think that with the 
 coming of morning George would exonerate himself 
 from all responsibility. She felt that if this proved 
 to be the case she could hardly blame him, and yet 
 that she would think the less of him for it. She was 
 not thinking very highly of him, as it was. The events 
 that had brought her nearer to her husband's heart had 
 repelled George from her. Without excusing herself 
 I 131 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 she condemned him. Again and again, while she was 
 sitting in the railway carriage beside Graham, who 
 was incorrigibly deep in Napier! her cheeks burned. 
 She had heard a proposal made to her such as she had 
 been accustomed to attribute chiefly to the realm of 
 unhealthy plays and putrid novels. That among her 
 friends had been a man so devoid of principle seemed as 
 unreal a fact as that her own conduct should have pro- 
 voked his sullying suggestion. He had made it, and 
 lightning from the skies had not shriveled him; worse 
 still, she had herself dealt no scathing stroke. It shamed 
 her to think of, sitting by the single-minded reader; she 
 humbled herself anew to him. She could not taste the 
 last cup of humiliation; she could not make a free con- 
 fession. Graham might, indeed, be a man of peace, but 
 often had she heard him express the opinion that horse- 
 whips were for scoundrels. 
 
 Then her old loyalty and her sense of generosity and 
 justice cried out against her; the portrait of the unfor- 
 tunate man was too black ! She dwelt on the condoning 
 circumstances, scourged herself with the memory that 
 she had detained him from the work in which had been 
 his salvation, recalled the allurements harmless they 
 had seemed ! that she had spread to keep him linger- 
 ing; playing with fire, what wonder that she had kindled 
 it into flame! Or why reproach fire for having the prop- 
 erties of its nature! The portrait had not been painted 
 black, but it had been smudged; so also that of herself. 
 
 Perhaps she could still give George a friendly hand; 
 perhaps they could mutually signify that the day at 
 Chantilly had been erased from memory. 
 [ 132 ]
 
 On the boat she looked for him and soon convinced 
 herself that he had not come. Ascertaining this, she felt 
 somewhat relieved; it would have been awkward to 
 meet him. No doubt he had decided that his coming was 
 unnecessary; no doubt also he had been willing to avoid 
 encountering her. The thought that he might have had 
 a reaction to shyness and delicacy meant a thought 
 towards forgiveness. 
 
 It was a rough sea in the Channel, and despite the 
 quickness of the crossing, it very nearly did for Graham. 
 "You'll excuse me, my dear, if I don't try to talk," was 
 his last utterance, delivered with an economy of breath; 
 above the chrysalis of his steamer rug his face seemed 
 to wither momently. The qualmishness of his aspect 
 touched Rosamond; she hovered over him, cooed to him 
 "Oh, my dear, if you were only an invalid always, 
 how sweet to you I should always be!" His wan smile 
 was her reward. 
 
 Magical was the recovery upon landing, wonderful 
 the reviving powers of the tea basket that accompanied 
 them in the train up to London. 
 
 "I'm glad you're feeling brisk again, Graham," said 
 Rosamond. "For of course there will be a great deal to 
 do for Mrs. Vasmer. I wish I had thought to have you 
 look up sailings for them " 
 
 "I did it last night when I looked up trains," Graham 
 answered. "The Empress sails to-morrow afternoon at 
 five from Southampton; that's the best they can do. 
 Then there's the Slavonia the next day sailing from 
 Liverpool." 
 
 "How thoughtful you are, Graham! And how cross 
 [ 133 ]
 
 I was!" She beamed on him; she toyed with the aqua- 
 marine pendant. He had himself fastened it round her 
 neck that morning. "Would you truly rather not have 
 me wear this? I'll never wear ear-rings or necklaces or 
 rings if you'd like me better without them." 
 
 "No, no." He laughed. "We're going to tolerate 
 each other 's tastes from now on, and then perhaps some- 
 time we shall share them. I want you to wear any- 
 thing that gives you pleasure, Rosamond." 
 
 His gentleness, his tenderness somehow flung her back 
 upon her disloyalty of the day before, and she amazed 
 him by suddenly putting her head against his shoulder 
 and weeping silently. To his concerned inquiries she 
 answered only, "It's nothing, Graham. It's just that 
 I love you I do love you!" 
 
 It gave him great contentment to hear it, but he could 
 not understand why the fact should make her cry. Yet 
 the fact that she did cry appealed to his tenderness; he 
 petted and caressed her. 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, realizing that the tram was 
 drawing into Charing Cross, "how my eyes will look!" 
 She dabbed at them with her handkerchief and added, 
 "But they would look so anyway very soon, for, of 
 course, I shall cry when I see Dorothy." 
 
 At the hotel while Graham was engaging rooms, Rosa- 
 mond sent up her name at once to Mrs. Vasmer. 
 
 "Come as soon as you can, Graham," she said, when 
 she received the invitation to go to Mrs. Vasmer's 
 rooms. 
 
 Dorothy alone welcomed her. "Oh, my dear, how 
 sweet of you to come to us ! " The two girls were in each 
 [ 134 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 other's arms. "To know that you would come it has 
 helped us." 
 
 " Graham is here, too, but I felt that I must see 
 you first." It was Rosamond who was in tears; Dorothy, 
 pale and wan, kept a steady lip. "Your mother, Dor- 
 othy?" 
 
 "She is sleeping now. She is being very brave, but she 
 had not slept not until this afternoon. Sit here, 
 Rosamond. Father's collapse was unexpected. We 
 thought he was recovering; but peritonitis set in. The 
 people here, the surgeon every one has been kind. 
 But we have had to decide things and poor mother 
 she has n't known what to do. It is such a comfort 
 to see you it was such a comfort to see Dr. Brandon 
 so good of him to come." 
 
 "George Brandon he is here, then?" 
 
 " He came this afternoon. He has been so kind, so 
 helpful. Indeed, he is out now making some arrange- 
 ments for us." 
 
 "When shall you be sailing?" 
 
 "To-morrow, on the Empress. There will be a ser- 
 vice in the morning at ten o'clock in St. George's. 
 Mother felt she could not sail until the service had been 
 read over him in church." 
 
 Dorothy's self-control yielded to the pressure of emo- 
 tion. Her lips quivered, the tears came. Rosamond drew 
 the sobbing girl to her breast. 
 
 A knock sounded gently at the door. 
 
 "It's Graham; I'll send him away," Rosamond said. 
 
 But Dorothy caught her wrist, held it an instant 
 firmly while she wiped away her tears. 
 [ 135 1
 
 "No, I'm all right, Rosamond. I should like to see 
 Graham." 
 
 She opened the door to him, took his hand and drew 
 him into the room showing him that she knew all that 
 he would say and sparing him the difficult utterance. She 
 thanked him for bringing Rosamond to her, for coming 
 himself "Our sorrow has broken in upon your happi- 
 ness." 
 
 He spoke of his desire to be of service. She was grate- 
 ful; doubtless there would be opportunity, but at pres- 
 ent she could think of nothing. "Perhaps if you would 
 talk with Dr. Brandon he has very kindly taken 
 charge " 
 
 "Yes, certainly, that is what I shall do. And if any- 
 thing occurs to you, of course you will commission me 
 through Rosamond?" 
 
 "Indeed, yes." He bowed over her hand. "You will 
 leave Rosamond with me for a little while? " 
 
 Rosamond sat elapsing her friend's hand. Now and 
 then they spoke, Dorothy to tell something of her 
 father's last days, Rosamond to murmur a question or 
 a little word of sorrow. But for the most part they 
 sat clinging to each other, close, in a wordless sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Presently George Brandon's card was sent in. 
 
 "Yes, ask him to come up," said Dorothy. 
 
 When he entered, and saw Rosamond, he looked at 
 her uncertainly; his manner was defensive. She noted it, 
 and it made her wish to reassure him. 
 
 "You did better than we," she said; "we have just 
 arrived." 
 
 I 136 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 He smiled, and she saw that his eyes had fallen on the 
 aquamarine pendant. 
 
 "I had promised you," he said in a tone so low that 
 only she heard. 
 
 He turned to Dorothy. "I have all the tickets rail- 
 way, steamer, everything. And the money, " he 
 counted it out for her, bank notes, gold pieces. "I think 
 that everything is attended to. I saw the curate at St. 
 George's; the rector is absent. You need have nothing 
 on your mind, except your packing. There will be a 
 carriage here for you at a quarter to ten to-morrow 
 morning. Do you think of anything else?" 
 
 "No, nothing. I don't know what we should have 
 done without your help. We can never thank you 
 enough." 
 
 "I 've done very little. If I can be of further use, please 
 let me know, at the Burlington. I shall be very glad." 
 
 "Thank you again. Good-night, Dr. Brandon." 
 
 "Good-night, Miss Vasmer. Good-night, Rosa- 
 mond." 
 
 He pressed her hand lightly and was gone. Rosamond 
 had felt a twinge of jealousy while he talked jealousy 
 on behalf of Graham; she had wished that Graham had 
 been the timely and efficient friend, that to him Dorothy's 
 gratitude had flowed. But because George Brandon had 
 been so prompt she felt more kindly towards him 
 especially since he had conveyed the intimation that to 
 her his promptness had been due. That he had been 
 helpful she saw; sympathetic he always was. His implied 
 wish to make atonement could not but touch Rosa- 
 mond's gentle heart. 
 
 [ 137 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 She remained with Dorothy in the twilight until from 
 the next room Mrs. Vasmer called. "Come to us after 
 dinner; do!" Dorothy pleaded. "Mother will want to 
 see you then." 
 
 So that evening Rosamond left Graham in his room to 
 write letters and herself sat with her friends; companion- 
 ship, if it could not administer consolation, at least 
 seemed to divert their thoughts. Mrs. Vasmer looked 
 old and broken. When finally Rosamond rose to take 
 her departure, Mrs. Vasmer embraced her and fell to 
 weeping. "Dear child," she said, "and you are on your 
 wedding journey! Pray that your husband may be 
 spared to you as long as you live!" 
 
 Graham wondered that evening at the fantastic sud- 
 denness of women. He was writing when his wife en- 
 tered, and coming up behind him clung to him and 
 cried, 
 
 "Oh, Graham, I don't want to grow old! I don't 
 want to grow old and have you die!'*
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 DEATH AND BATTLEFIELDS 
 
 THE files of empty polished oak pews reflected the 
 sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass 
 windows. On the altar the candles were burning redly. 
 The verger in his black gown crossed the chancel and 
 vanished; the door closing behind him awoke hollow 
 echoes through the nave. These died, and again the hum 
 of outer London pervaded the silent place. Sitting alone 
 in one of the pews near the chancel, Rosamond and 
 Graham waited, strangely conscious of a deepening 
 solemnity as the hushed moments passed. Some one 
 entered, came up the aisle, and sat down a little way 
 behind them. Without looking round, Rosamond knew 
 that it was George. 
 
 The loneliness, the emptiness overawed and stilled 
 her more than the presence of troops of mourners could 
 have done. She had a momentary sense that she and 
 Graham and George should not be there, that they were 
 all intruders, that there should be none but the family 
 to deliver up the dead to God. 
 
 From the organ rose the low, swelling notes of "Saul." 
 Suddenly the bell was tolled, and from the outer door 
 the curate advanced slowly up the aisle chanting, "I 
 am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord." 
 
 Standing, Rosamond saw the look of eager spiritual 
 exaltation on the young curate's face a look that 
 I 139 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 seemed to declare, "Death is a bridegroom lo, the 
 bridegroom cometh." The curate passed, and her 
 eyes fell on the coffin, moved slowly forward on its car; 
 a laurel wreath was its only adornment. Then, walking 
 feebly, arm in arm, came the two sad shrouded women. 
 Rosamond dropped her eyes. W r hen she raised them 
 again, the two were standing in the first pew, the clergy- 
 man had turned and was saying, "Lord, let me know 
 mine end, and the number of my days; that I may be 
 certified how long I have to live!" 
 
 Rosamond, looking at the daughter and the wife, 
 found herself wondering how much they believed. She 
 wondered how much she herself believed. Gazing at 
 the rapt face of the young curate, she thought, "What 
 happiness to be sure, like you!" A vision of herself 
 standing there in Mrs. Vasmer's place, hearing these 
 same words pronounced over Graham, suddenly chilled 
 her to the heart. Oh, that could never be; it must never 
 be! She drew closer to Graham and caught and held his 
 hand, pressing it tight, until the end of the service. 
 
 Afterwards she knew that George Brandon, standing 
 behind them,must have observed this. Shewasnot sorry. 
 
 The organ pealed again the funeral march. Down the 
 aisle the two women moved behind their dead, the eyes 
 of each fixed upon the laurel wreath that rested above his 
 breast. The curate stood at the chancel steps, and his 
 look of benediction followed the departing figures. 
 When they had passed out, he turned and left the chan- 
 cel, and the music ceased. 
 
 A moment later George Brandon joined Rosamond 
 and Graham outside the church. 
 [ 140 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 " We are walking," said Graham. " Will you come with 
 us?" 
 
 "Thank you, no. I have one or two matters to attend 
 to now. But I shall see you this afternoon. Miss Vasmer 
 tells me that you are going to Southampton, to see them 
 sail." He addressed his speech to Rosamond. 
 
 "Yes. You also?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. I am sailing, too, on the Empress." 
 
 He stepped into a hansom and drove off towards 
 Regent Street. Rosamond and Graham walked down 
 Brook Street through Grosvenor Square to Park Lane. 
 There shining and splendid was the world on this Septem- 
 ber morning; from the Marble Arch, gleaming and glis- 
 tening in the sun, streamed the brisk and busy carriages, 
 horses in bright harness at the unceasing trot; along the 
 way the flower beds of the Park were gay with asters; 
 on them and the strollers in the paths and the distant 
 riders in the Row, on the proudly conscious horses and 
 the proudly conscious ladies, on the green quietude of 
 grass and trees and the restless movement of the human 
 throng, the great houses, symbols and towers of earthly 
 grandeur, looked down. So out into the lively, shining 
 world, again came Rosamond, from a few moments in 
 the presence of the unseen and eternal out like a 
 swimmer issuing to sun and air from a dive into the 
 depths. She swam again upon the surface. 
 
 Yet within her mind there lingered to dispute the 
 sovereignty of this fresh and pleasant world the vision 
 of two sad, forlorn women, seated in a carriage with the 
 shades drawn, and weeping in each other's arms. 
 
 There was a message for her when she and Graham 
 [ 141 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 arrived at the hotel. Dorothy had written to beg her 
 company on the train to Southampton. Would she not 
 consent to be separated from her husband just for that 
 short journey? Dorothy wrote that her mother joined 
 in the appeal. 
 
 "Poor things! Do what you can for them," said 
 Graham. 
 
 He found himself ensconced in a smoking-compartment 
 with George Brandon. They talked together for a time, 
 but each was aware of stiffness in himself and in the 
 other. Graham itched to be at his Napier, George would 
 have preferred the society of his own thoughts. And 
 presently each was indulging his wishes. 
 
 For her friends Rosamond did her best. Mrs. Vasmer 
 kept her self-control, seemed to listen to Rosamond's 
 narrative of experiences and adventures, those with 
 George were not touched on ; once or twice even smiled. 
 She recalled with a certain poignant pleasure episodes 
 from her own European honeymoon. Dorothy clung 
 to Rosamond's hand. 
 
 "I wish we could take you with us on the ship, my 
 dear," she murmured. "For our sake, not for yours." 
 
 On board the ship Mrs. Vasmer bade Rosamond and 
 Graham farewell in her stateroom. 
 
 "Now, go ashore and forget all about us," she said. 
 "Thoughts of us must not make you two young people 
 unhappy any longer." 
 
 She kissed Rosamond, gave her hand to Graham, and 
 
 said good-bye. But Dorothy accompanied them to the 
 
 deck and stood at the rail after they had descended the 
 
 gangway. George Brandon joined her there, and when 
 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 the Empress cast off and moved away from the dock, 
 Dorothy and George still kept sight of Rosamond and 
 Graham in the crowd and signalled their farewells. 
 
 "Only two weeks more for us," said Graham, as he 
 and Rosamond made their way from the wharf. "Till 
 then, what is it to be? Back to Paris, or up to Scotland, 
 or what?" 
 
 "What should you most like to do, Graham?" 
 
 "Well," he confessed with an ingenuous smile, "there 
 are some mighty good battlefields in Scotland that I Ve 
 never seen." 
 
 "Scotland it is, then. And I '11 go over the battlefields 
 with you. But Graham, dear, you '11 try to keep me from 
 thinking of them as scenes of dreadful carnage and 
 death?" 
 
 " Certainly I will. I never think of them in that way," 
 said Graham. 
 
 "How unimaginative!" 
 
 But she smiled at him and gave his arm a little loving 
 squeeze.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 "SUN, MOON, AND STARS FORGOT " 
 
 TO George Brandon the experience of having women 
 dependent on him, looking to him for help and com- 
 fort, was unusual and interesting. For a few days 
 Rosamond had been in that relation to him, and the 
 novelty had, as he admitted to himself now, turned his 
 head. His mother had died when he was very young; 
 his sister had married before he had developed any sense 
 of responsibility for her. There had been no woman 
 for him to take care of, and there had been none to take 
 care of him. In his hospital practice he had, of course, 
 encountered cases that had appealed to his sympathy, 
 but they had not been of a nature to rouse in him any 
 deeper emotion than kindness. He had been kind to many 
 women, devoted to only one. 
 
 Already he was ashamed of the excess to which this 
 devotion had carried him. He had been both ridiculous 
 and culpable. Yet she had forgiven him; he had known 
 that when he saw her wearing his pendant and heard her 
 thank him for coming at her friends' need. In the church 
 the significance of the way in which she seized her hus- 
 band's hand and clung to it had not escaped him. From 
 that moment he relinquished her, even in his thoughts, 
 without heart-burning. He knew then that when he 
 had urged her to take the desperate step, he had been 
 moved by a false conception of her inmost feelings. 
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 That she was conscious of having misled him and wished 
 to forget and to have him forget he was now well aware; 
 the few moments that he had passed with her since the 
 return from Chantilly had made him feel that never 
 again could their intercourse have the freedom and inti- 
 macy of old times. It was a saddening thought and 
 yet a liberating thought as well. 
 
 The situation of the bereaved widow and daughter 
 engaged his sympathy. He had been able to shield them 
 somewhat from bruising contacts, to spare them the pain 
 of dealing with those for whom death is a commercial 
 opportunity and with those for whom it is an inconvenient 
 episode. It had been with a sense that he could be still 
 further useful to them that he had taken passage him- 
 self on the Empress. A certain chivalry compelled him 
 to follow up the forlorn pair, deliver them safely, even 
 at the cost of martyrdom. Had he consulted his own 
 pleasure, he would have sailed on any steamer but the 
 one that must from the circumstances of the case be a 
 funeral ship. He pitied the two w r omen too intensely 
 to have any clear idea of them as individuals; they were 
 objects to be served and defended. 
 
 It seemed to him that he could best fulfill his office 
 by establishing himself as a bulwark against the intru- 
 sions of other passengers; then if the bulwark seemed not 
 desired, it could readily be withdrawn. So he secured 
 deck chairs for the ladies and had his own placed next 
 to them; and in the dining-saloon he reserved a small 
 table for three. 
 
 Having done this, he looked about for Mrs. Vasmer 
 or Miss Vasmer, to report to them, but they did not 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 appear. He decided not to disturb them in their state- 
 room. That evening he dined solitary at his little table. 
 At nine o'clock, when he was taking a turn about the 
 deck, he encountered Miss Vasmer, muffled and veiled. 
 
 " I 'm glad you 're getting some air and exercise before 
 turning in," he said. "Can't your mother be persuaded? " 
 
 "No; I tried. She's too tired to make an effort." 
 
 "It will do her no harm to remain quiet for a day or 
 so and rest. But I hope that she will come up on deck. 
 I've arranged so that our deck chairs are together 
 also that we have a little table to ourselves. If I'm in 
 the way, you must be frank and say so. I thought that, 
 at any rate, I might prevent some one else from getting 
 in the way." 
 
 "Indeed, it's very thoughtful of you. The fact that 
 you will be right there I 'm sure it will seem more pos- 
 sible to mother \o appear. But you should n't sacrifice 
 yourself in this way, Dr. Brandon. We can't be en- 
 livening companions." 
 
 "You must have no thought of that. If you think it 
 would be a help to have me there, then to me it will be 
 a pleasure. If you think it would n't be a help, I shall not 
 feel hurt." 
 
 "Of course it will be the greatest help. Mother and I 
 need somebody besides each other. And you don't seem 
 a stranger to us any longer. Besides, even if you had n't 
 already done so much for us, a doctor you can hardly 
 know how comforting a doctor seems at times!" 
 
 She bade him good-night and passed into the cabin. 
 George Brandon strode up and down the deck and 
 finally stood for a time at the rail gazing off at the dark- 
 [ 146 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ness and the starry sky. The sound of the rushing levia- 
 than beneath his feet stirred him ; it sang to him of energy 
 and enthusiasm ; it gave forth the surging note of pride 
 in work. His thoughts lifted to his future, hopefully, 
 prayerfully; he would still make amends for the fritter- 
 ing away of years. 
 
 It seemed to George that the black in which Dorothy 
 Vasmer had robed herself accentuated the warmth of 
 color in her face, the depth of her gray eyes, the sensitive- 
 ness of her lips. He had imagined her a person of rather 
 hard and glancing surfaces; black, like the rain cloud 
 veiling the bright peak, limned another character. It 
 surprised George and pleased him to find how frankly 
 she accepted him as adviser, judge, and confidant, how 
 ingenuous and unreserved she was from the first in com- 
 municating to him her perplexities and her distress. They 
 met at dinner, they sat together occasionally on deck, 
 and Dorothy told him about her father how she and 
 her mother had always referred even little details to him, 
 how he had planned and advised and decided things 
 for them things that his daughter had been too lazy 
 and selfish to think about and that his wife had learned 
 to neglect through the satisfaction in always feeling so 
 perfectly managed. 
 
 At times phrases showing where her mind kept turn- 
 ing escaped her, as it were unconsciously. " We both of 
 us dread the first entering the house. Why should we 
 dread it so reminders of one we love!" 
 
 Her mother did not emerge from her stateroom; 
 Dorothy was with her most of the time. On the third 
 morning George recognized a tired look in the girl's eyes. 
 [ 147 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I shall get your mother up on deck to-day," he said. 
 
 " I think perhaps she will come if you advise it." 
 
 "And when she comes, you will go to the stateroom 
 and sleep." 
 
 "It's not necessary." 
 
 "But it is. You have n't been sleeping." 
 
 "The nights are hard," she confessed. "One thinks 
 at night." 
 
 "Does n't your mother sleep?" 
 
 "Not well. She dreams and wakes crying. That rends 
 me and I seem to lie and listen for it." 
 
 "Poor souls!" 
 
 Her eyes filled, at the compassion hi his. 
 
 He meditated on her character as he had conceived it 
 from her reputation. She had been the least known to 
 him of all Rosamond's friends a dashing, reckless 
 young woman, fond of athletics, a hard rider, enthusias- 
 tic hi society, a dabbler in charities, and ruthless with 
 the large and ever hopeful male following that was al- 
 ways at her command. Excitement, he had supposed, 
 was as the breath of life to her; being himself enchained 
 by another's enchantment, he had never felt for her 
 more than a cool, somewhat amused admiration. She 
 was popularly supposed to be "good fun." Qualities 
 of sentiment and submission were the last that he would 
 have suspected her of being willing to reveal. 
 
 Mrs. Vasmer was obedient to a doctor's orders. Once 
 urged to the deck, once led into the dining-saloon, she 
 accepted such excursions as part of the routine imposed 
 on her by a physician; finding that Dr. Brandon was 
 determined not to relax his supervision, she showed her 
 I 148 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 gratitude by growing communicative. Her husband's 
 life had been an interesting and worthy one; her anec- 
 dotes were not tedious. Relating them while she lay in 
 her steamer chair, her daughter on one side, George 
 Brandon on the other, she acquired greater cheerfulness 
 than when she recalled these and kindred episodes 
 merely to herself in solitude. Her face brightened, and 
 with its brightening George noticed the quick rally of 
 vivacity to her daughter's eyes. They had often been 
 clouded or bright with tears when she had talked with 
 him ; now there were moments when he caught from them 
 sunny gleams. 
 
 One of these moments was when, circling the deck on 
 the fifth morning in his regular promenade, he encoun- 
 tered Mrs. Vasmer and her daughter pacing arm in arm 
 in the opposite direction. There was a morning greeting 
 for him then that seemed to sparkle. Three times on 
 each successive round he encountered it, the shy smile 
 and the shining glance. On his fourth circuit it failed 
 him ; Dorothy and her mother had finished their exercise 
 and their deck chairs were vacant. The discovery took 
 something of the eager spirit from George's feet. The 
 meeting and the glance the certainty of them would 
 have kept him treading the deck, round after round, 
 with the persistent willingness of a squirrel hi a revolving 
 cage. 
 
 George did not attempt to deceive himself; he knew 
 that he was falling in love. The question was whether 
 he should now try to repress the tendency or follow it. 
 He sat down and then stretched himself out in his deck 
 chair to think about the matter. 
 I 149 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 He tried to test the sincerity and significance of his 
 awakening interest by comparing his new emotions over 
 Dorothy with those that Rosamond had inspired; and 
 he found that he could not really proceed to any compari- 
 son. One girl he had known for years, and the other for 
 days. He admitted that certain emotions and sentiments 
 which only a week before he had believed consecrated to 
 the service or the worship of Rosamond were now de- 
 claring themselves for a new mistress. "She likes me, 
 she makes me feel that she likes being dependent on 
 me, she makes me feel that I like having her so. Now am 
 I being led along by vanity or am I not? " He desired 
 an honest answer; he was still listening for it when Do- 
 rothy Vasmer came briskly by in front of him and turned 
 on him again her disturbing smile. 
 
 " Mother 's had enough, but I have n't," she explained. 
 
 And so he flung self-analysis and steamer rug aside 
 and joined her. 
 
 The briskness and vigor of her gait did not encourage 
 talk. It was the first time that he had been with her in 
 this mood and it stimulated him pleasantly. He re- 
 membered now how she had used to romp at dances; not 
 till this moment had he thought of it. Rosamond float- 
 ing gracefully, smiling serenely, drifting without effort 
 obedient to her partner's will, and this creature, flushed 
 and eager, sweeping down the room like a Diana, 
 these were two contrasting pictures. And never till now 
 had George seen the charm in the Diana. 
 
 She said to him, " I should like to get on a horse and 
 ride and ride and ride." 
 
 Suddenly her steps flagged. She stopped by the rail 
 1 150 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 and stood looking out over the shining crested waves. 
 When she turned, George saw that her expression had 
 changed; her eyes were misted over. 
 
 " It was father who taught me to ride," she said. "The 
 best rides I ever had were with him. I think I 'm heart- 
 less not to be thinking of him every moment. Some- 
 times I can't believe he 's dead when I feel so much 
 alive." 
 
 " Not heartless. Oh ! " he exclaimed, for she had turned 
 from him again with her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 "Would you rather have me go away?" 
 
 She shook her head and said after a moment, "I 
 realize it's mean to cling to you when I'm in this de- 
 pressing state." 
 
 "My dear girl, what is a friend for? I hope you count 
 me a friend?" 
 
 "Oh, I do, one of my best and dearest. No, you 
 have n't been a friend; you've been an angel to us." 
 
 "I like 'friend' better." 
 
 " Friend, then, one of my best and dearest. It must 
 be hard to be a doctor always seeing women at their 
 most emotional!" 
 
 She smiled at him, wistful after weeping, and he longed 
 to take her in his arms. 
 
 The interview left him shaken, agitated by the first 
 stirring of passion. He no longer questioned; the chang- 
 ing lights in her sweet eyes kindled his spirit, her lips 
 were brave for love, her voice woke echoes in his soul. 
 He was jealous of her every disappearance from his 
 view. He watched her with a new intentness, of which 
 she seemed unaware. Each sign and expression from her 
 I 151 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 of grateful dependence on him made him tremulous with 
 delight. Best of all he felt for her true tenderness. He 
 had helped her, he knew; he had loved to help her; al- 
 ways he would love to help and serve her. 
 
 And after one more day she would pass from under 
 his dominion. The horde of romping suitors, now deco- 
 rous and grave, would surround her, and to some one 
 of them, hi the new emotional susceptibility that now 
 possessed her, she would strike her flag. On the last 
 evening of the voyage after dinner, George asked her to 
 walk the deck with him. They had it almost to them- 
 selves for there was a high cold wind, and clouds had 
 blotted out moon and stars. 
 
 "Let us stand here," said George; he drew her into 
 a corner behind a lifeboat where they were sheltered 
 from wind and from the notice of any who might pass. 
 Then he spoke rapidly in an unsteady voice. "Yester- 
 day you called me one of your best and dearest friends. 
 I want to be forever your best and dearest friend 
 your husband. I love you, and I have never loved doing 
 anything as I have loved serving you." 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and in the shadow he 
 could learn nothing from the half-averted face. Then 
 she turned and looked at him with eyes warm in the 
 darkness. 
 
 "And I love you." 
 
 He had not dared to hope for such immediate, such 
 unreserved surrender; it awed him. His own soul that 
 had debated with itself seemed shriveled and small com- 
 pared with hers. It was with a shy reverence strange hi 
 him that he put his arm round her. She elapsed the 
 I 152 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 stealing hand and held it warmly; at the clasp passion 
 flowed through him. 
 
 There by the rail they stood while the clouds parted 
 in the sky and moon and stars swam clear. She was his 
 with no questioning. He more than any other person in 
 the world had supported her and her mother in their 
 sorrow and distress. How should she not love him? 
 
 Yet to him it was so wonderful that again and again 
 he had to be assured of the truth. She was his with 
 no cajoling, no coaxing, no fleeing and pursuing! And 
 she did not doubt him. She did not require him to sat- 
 isfy her that he loved her more than he had ever loved 
 Rosamond. She believed him, she believed in him, she 
 loved him and oh, the gallant spirit so frank and 
 free to recognize her mate !
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 GREETINGS FROM DR. ARMAZET 
 
 THERE was a shadow on George Brandon's happi- 
 ness. He realized, that however successful in love 
 a man might be, loving was in itself no satisfying occu- 
 pation for a man. Whoever tries to make an occupation 
 of it will only degrade love and in the end extinguish it. 
 The reflection was an uncomfortable one. He himself 
 was confronting idleness. No longer could he roam the 
 world for butterflies and preserve the plausible figure of 
 a man. The years when he should have established him- 
 self in his profession had slipped by. To wait for pa- 
 tients who never came, to hope for hospital appointments 
 that were never conferred, would be a melancholy doom 
 for his father's son. Fate had been unkind in the person 
 of Dr. Armazet; there had been his chance! Yet, had he 
 seized it, he would never have won Dorothy. Each 
 month, each year that passed without his gaming foot- 
 hold in his profession must mean a drain upon buoyancy 
 and cheerfulness. 
 
 Gloomy meditations such as these his smiling eyes 
 had to mask as he stood on deck with Dorothy and her 
 mother while the steamer slid past the islands of Boston 
 Harbor. All about them were returning travelers, ex- 
 claiming happily, pointing eagerly at the landmarks 
 that meant home. But Mrs. Vasmer was silent and clung 
 to George's arm; emotion tightened her fingers. George, 
 [ 154 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 already welcomed by her with tears as a son, pressed her 
 hand. His arm supported her when she passed down the 
 gangway to the wharf; there her brother and his wife 
 were waiting. 
 
 "Come this evening," Dorothy whispered to him as 
 they parted. Already she was reluctant to have him 
 leave her side. 
 
 When he was again in his rooms on Beacon Street, he 
 walked through them exhilarated, yet touched with 
 regret, too, at the thought that they would not long be 
 his home. They had been comfortable quarters a 
 convenient sallying-point for a young man about town, 
 a pleasant rally ing-point for the young man's friends; the 
 view from the windows was extensive and varied enough 
 to divert one who was often idle. The place was one not 
 to be abandoned lightly, without affection. Yet George 
 felt himself uncomfortable in it; too acutely it revived 
 the past. It had been the setting for the jewel of his love 
 for Rosamond; in it what castles had he built, what let- 
 ters had he penned ! Now it was as if tainted with false 
 sentiment. And for its part it seemed somehow to re- 
 proach him. The vows committed to paper at that 
 table, the eager hopes that had been in his heart so often 
 when he had smiled into his glass had they, in spite 
 of all the years and all the thought, taken such shallow 
 root ! Imperatrix R in the cabinet should now be Impera- 
 trix D; after all, when love flies out of one window, it 
 soon enters again by another. George asserted to him- 
 self, against the reproach of the mute witnesses of past 
 emotions, that his love for Rosamond had been neither 
 false nor shallow and even more vehemently that his 
 [ 155 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 love for Dorothy was just as fresh and fine as if his eyes 
 had never sparkled to another girl's, as if his lips had 
 never breathed allegiance but to her. He thought of 
 Dorothy with tenderness. Of inconsistency in his mental 
 view of her he was conscious. There was fascination 
 for him in her as the unknown lady of his memory fly- 
 ing down a ballroom, twinkling laughter at her court; 
 yet for the Dorothy that he knew and had won, pity 
 rather than fascination moved in him. In sorrow, hi 
 the depths of tragic life, in the acknowledgment of de- 
 pendence and the acceptance of support, charm had van- 
 ished, and spiritual sweetness, not less appealing, had 
 been revealed. The lover was sure that hi happier days 
 the lady whose fascinating portrait brightened a cham- 
 ber of memory would reappear. 
 
 Two pigeons alighted on the window ledge and en- 
 gaged hi amorous march and countermarch, ruffling the 
 mottled iridescence of their necks. Their wooing ended, 
 they took their flight over the neighboring roofs. The 
 trees of the Common and the Garden were showing the 
 first gold of autumn, the grass was dusty and faded, yet 
 the few carriages that crawled up Beacon Street were 
 significant of midsummer dullness, and the great foun- 
 tain in the Frog Pond, visible from George's window, 
 was playing to full benches. George felt that it was 
 not for him to join the loungers, either there or at his 
 Club. He must waste no time in seeking to place himself, 
 and he set out to find Dr. Armazet, in the hope of re- 
 ceiving some useful suggestions or advice. 
 
 The surgeon was quitting his hospital when George 
 came up to the steps. 
 
 I 156 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Ah, Brandon," he said cordially. "Glad to see you 
 back. I'm just driving out to Brookline to visit a pa- 
 tient; hop in and we'll have a talk." 
 
 So George entered the waiting victoria, and as the 
 horses started off at a rapid trot he began somewhat 
 awkwardly. " I 'm sorry, Dr. Armazet, that I failed to 
 keep my appointment. I was unavoidably detained ' ' 
 He was about to add, "I found that I could do a service 
 to a friend," when Dr. Armazet interrupted him. 
 
 "Yes, I know." The surgeon nodded shrewdly, 
 kindly. He was a small, spare man, with gray mutton- 
 chop whiskers and mustache; somewhat a dandy in 
 dress; he drove behind good horses and a liveried coach- 
 man always. "You were helping Mrs. Vasmer through 
 her trouble; yes, I learned from her brother; she had 
 cabled him. A fine old chap, Vasmer was, and a dea> 
 friend of mine. I am glad that you could do his family 
 a service. If you still want a place with me, it's open to 
 you. I sent my message in a moment of irritation; you 
 will find I'm often irritated, irascible as the devil. But 
 it passes all moods pass. I have no one else; I like what 
 I know of you these butterfly vagaries, you can live 
 them down; you come of good stock. I wish to know 
 just one thing; you are in earnest now in your intention 
 to practice this profession?" 
 
 "Absolutely. I shall go on no more butterfly expedi- 
 tions." 
 
 "Certainly not. You will have no opportunity. If 
 
 I find that you do good work, you will have more and 
 
 more responsibility; if you don't do good work have 
 
 a cigarette." The proffer of the cigarette case nullified 
 
 [ 157 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 the asperity of the unuttered conclusion. "The work 
 will be wearing, and it is poorly paid except in ex- 
 perience. And you will find me hard to get along with; 
 I'm irascible as the devil." 
 
 "If you were the devil himself I should still be glad of 
 the opportunity," said George. "It means a great deal 
 to me. When should you like me to begin?" 
 
 "The sooner the better. To-morrow?" 
 
 "That will suit me perfectly." 
 
 "Very well, then. Report at my hospital at nine 
 o'clock and I will get you started." 
 
 They chatted then of other things Paris, the meet- 
 ing with Mrs. Vasmer and her daughter, the record of 
 the Boston baseball team and the prospects for the 
 Harvard football team. And while he maintained his 
 share of the conversation, George was thrilling with the 
 proud joyousness that he had felt at only a few great mo- 
 ments of his life as when he had made the winning 
 touchdown in his school championship game, and again 
 when he had captured Imperatrix R or D and again 
 when Dorothy had showed him her heart. Perhaps he 
 felt even more exultant now than when he had heard 
 that sweet word from her lips, for now his whole sky had 
 cleared; to the young man opportunity is even more than 
 love. 
 
 Late that afternoon when he saw Dorothy at home, 
 she disappointed him a little by not seeming to grasp 
 the significance of his news. 
 
 "Why, of course, Dr. Armazet would be glad to have 
 you for his assistant," she said. "And if he would n't 
 others would. You'd make a success anyway and 
 [ 158 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 you won't be anybody's assistant long. You '11 be having 
 assistants of your own. It seems to me he means to get 
 a great deal out of you and pay you very little in return." 
 
 "The chance is enough, without any question of pay," 
 George explained. "I shall be sharing in the widest ex- 
 perience and the best practice in Boston." 
 
 "Well, if you're pleased," she conceded. "But it 
 does seem to me that he ought to pay you better, he's 
 so rich, too! And you'd make a success without his help 
 probably sooner!" 
 
 He liked to be assured of her confidence in him* yet 
 he would have liked it even better if she had appreciated 
 intelligently the advantages that the position offered 
 him and the good work that he must have done to 
 justify the offer! It occurred to him that success and 
 good work were things that she probably took for granted 
 on the part of her friends, and that she was not accus- 
 tomed to think of them as accompanied by hard work; 
 perhaps in her eyes one grew up to them quite naturally. 
 The idea, a not wholly comfortable one, derived some con- 
 firmation from the surroundings in which George found 
 himself. The Vasmer house was one of luxury and mag- 
 nificence. Not easily overawed by splendor, George on 
 crossing the threshold had felt quite appalled at the 
 consciousness that he had come into such intimate con- 
 tact with what was obviously a swollen fortune. To a 
 girl brought up in that atmosphere, success and achieve- 
 ment were platitudes; indeed, Mr. Vasmer had been one 
 who carried lightly his wealth and his enterprises, and 
 Dorothy had become imbued with the feeling that those 
 whom she knew were an aristocracy in point, not merely 
 [ 159 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 of birth, but also of ability, destined to large perform- 
 ance with careless ease. George remembered that the 
 young men who had been in her train were all of conspicu- 
 ous promise and distinction, that she had displayed a 
 knack for drawing to herself youthful notabilities. All 
 the more flattering, then, was her acceptance of him 
 but he must beware of striking a pose that he could not 
 maintain. Hard work could be for him the only means to 
 good work but she would soon understand. 
 
 "I am to start in to-morrow," he said, "and my time 
 will be so little my own that I can't tell how often I may 
 have an opportunity of seeing you, Dorothy. Let us be 
 married soon, dear." 
 
 "Soon?" she echoed doubtfully; and then she said, 
 "Well, why should n't we? Except that it may be hard 
 for mother." 
 
 "I shan't be taking you from her." 
 
 "We might live here. There is room for us room 
 for you to have an office." 
 
 He shook his head. "No. When we start out to- 
 gether, you must be under my wing, not I under yours. 
 Besides, if I opened an office in a place like this, no one 
 would take me seriously. Can we be married within a 
 month?" 
 
 "That seems so abrupt " 
 
 "But you won't have to undertake preparations for 
 a big wedding." 
 
 "I always supposed I should have that," she said 
 with a sigh. "I always wanted it." 
 
 "You would n't keep me waiting?" 
 
 "No. And really, why should n't we be married hi a 
 I 160 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 month? If mother can be reconciled to it. Are you sure 
 that you love me, George?" 
 
 He asserted it, embracing her. 
 
 "You don't know me very well." 
 
 "As well as you know me. And you do love me, don't 
 you?" 
 
 "How could I help it? And I never loved any one 
 before. That is what makes me sure now." 
 
 George said, after a moment's silence, " I am sure 
 not for that reason." 
 
 She stopped him, putting her hand on his arm and 
 pressing it. 
 
 " I mean never to be jealous of Rosamond I care 
 for her too much. She might have been yours and she 
 chose another; I am sorry for her that's all." 
 
 "You're a magnanimous soul, and I'm an unworthy 
 one. But I love you, I love you, I love you." 
 
 She gave her lips and eyes to his kisses; she murmured, 
 "Oh, it's wrong, it's wrong; I should be feeling only 
 sorrow, and I am feeling only happiness." And then she 
 added, as if to herself, "Father would be happy if he 
 knew." 
 
 That brought George in spirit to his knees." Oh, how 
 I shall work to make you always happy ! " 
 
 "Love me," she said. 
 
 "If that were all! And so what day shall we set? A 
 month from to-day?" 
 
 "If mother consents." 
 
 He sprang to his feet. " Let 's go to your mother about 
 it now." 
 
 "No, no!" She reached up from the sofa where she 
 [ 161 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 sat and caught his hand. Her eyes filled with tears; she 
 said in a choking voice, "Mother is sitting upstairs 
 alone, with with father; she wished it. And I am here 
 happy happy!" 
 
 She turned her face from him, trying to hide her sobs.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A LITTLE HOUSE IN MARLBOROUGH STREET 
 
 FROM the beginning, Dr. Armazet made George 
 feel that he regarded him as competent for any sur- 
 gical crisis. He spared no pains in preparing him for 
 each important case. Most of Dr. Armazet's cases were 
 important. Not only in the number of patients, but also 
 in the territory that he covered was his surgical practice 
 extensive. It reached out to towns and cities within a 
 radius of sixty or seventy miles from Boston. Physi- 
 cians in Newburyport, Worcester, and New Bedford 
 frequently summoned him. Wherever he went to oper- 
 ate, he took George with him ; George shared in the grate- 
 ful glance that said, "God bless you," in the pleading 
 look that cried, "Help me!" in the clouded gaze that 
 spoke of hopelessness. From gloom into sunlight, and 
 from sunlight into gloom, the transitions of the busy 
 surgeon's life were swift and sharp. He bore them with 
 equanimity; he told George that he had long ago sup- 
 pressed imaginative tendencies to dwell morbidly or 
 happily on the condition of those with whom he dealt. 
 His professional creed was that life matters but little, 
 and that nothing else matters so much. The irascibility 
 of which he had notified George manifested itself fre- 
 quently while he was operating; he swore profanely at 
 any unfavorable discovery, cried out sharply at any 
 awkwardness or lack of deftness on the part of nurse 
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 or assistant, and afterwards invariably said, "If I got a 
 bit excited, you must forgive me; I'm irascible as the 
 devil." The nurses all adored him. 
 
 There were so many points to engage George's atten- 
 tion and the human interest of the work was so continu- 
 ous and absorbing that when he had a slack moment he 
 was rather disturbed to consider how absent Dorothy 
 had been from his thoughts. Surely life without her ought 
 not to be so satisfying; hastening to her in sudden per- 
 plexity and concern he was reassured to find that she 
 made life rapturous. She did not reproach him for neg- 
 lecting her; she showed such joy in his presence that he 
 reproached himself. How she did love him! And how 
 delicious it was to be so loved! "Whenever the tele- 
 phone rings, I hope it's you. And I think of you every 
 hour and wonder how soon you'll come. When we're 
 married, George, we shall be together more, shan't we? " 
 
 He assured her of that. He explained under what 
 pressure he had been working. She entreated him not to 
 let Dr. Armazet make a slave of him. 
 
 He began to describe his day, to show that there was 
 no slavery; he was proceeding into considerable detail 
 when she stopped him: "Oh, but skip the operations, 
 George! I really don't like to hear about such things; 
 they make me squirm. Talk to me about just you and 
 me." 
 
 Again he thought how delicious to be so loved! He 
 told her that he was glad their wedding-day was only 
 three weeks distant, absences from her were so very hard 
 to bear. In the intoxication of her presence this really 
 seemed the truth. She asked him if he had thought at 
 [ 164 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 all about where they should live. No, he had been too 
 much occupied. 
 
 "But why shouldn't we go house-hunting to-mor- 
 row? I have nothing scheduled for the afternoon. Per- 
 haps I 'd better tell Dr. Armazet at once of our plans." 
 
 She conceded this, on the condition that Dr. Arma- 
 zet should be vowed to secrecy until the engagement 
 was formally announced. And as that was to be hi three 
 days she thought that he could be trusted. 
 
 "I'm afraid we shall have a very short honeymoon; 
 I don't know just how Dr. Armazet will view the pro- 
 ceeding." 
 
 "Dr. Armazet, always Dr. Armazet!" cried Dorothy. 
 "But it's all right, I ought not to be aw r ay from mother 
 very long just now. I will consent to the short honey- 
 moon. Mother has been sweet about letting me go away 
 to live with you. She would so much rather have us live 
 here with her." 
 
 "We will try to find something close by, where she 
 will feel that you can run in at any moment. A little 
 house in Marlborough Street, just one block down, is 
 for sale. We might look at that to-morrow, or would you 
 rather live in an apartment? " 
 
 "Oh, no; a little house all our own!" 
 
 Dr. Armazet received George's announcement with 
 gratifying enthusiasm. 
 
 "Good!" he cried. "Good, indeed! A doctor unmar- 
 ried lacks his right hand. And she's a splendid girl. 
 Yes, I shall have to allow you a holiday for such a 
 purpose. How much time off do you want, and when 
 do you want it?" 
 
 I 165 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 George suggested ten days. 
 
 "God bless you, yes. And I'm glad you're doing this 
 thing at the beginning. For in a year or two, I might be 
 depending on you too much to let you get married." 
 
 It was a compliment that hit the mark. "Then he 
 does think well of me." With this happy inference to 
 encourage him George took Dorothy that afternoon to 
 view the Marlborough Street house. She was delighted 
 with it; of course it would need new wall-papers and 
 some repairs, but it was a cozy, comfortable-looking lit- 
 tle house. The fact that it was but a few steps from her 
 mother's made it seem to Dorothy especially desirable. 
 The reception-room off the front hall would serve as a 
 consulting-room; the dining-room behind it would have 
 to be utilized as a waiting-room during George's after- 
 noon office-hours. " We shall have to lunch early," 
 said Dorothy. "But we shan't mind that." Upstairs 
 she would have a sunny drawing-room and a tiny library. 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, "I think it will be adorable, 
 George. Let's try it. Can you afford to buy it?" 
 
 "We'll see," said George, and he went that afternoon 
 to interview the agent. The price asked seemed unrea- 
 sonably high. George made an offer, and the next day 
 was notified that it had been accepted. "I might have 
 got it for less," he thought; "but since Dorothy is 
 pleased with it I can't grudge the money." It occurred 
 to him that Dorothy probably had an income of her own, 
 and in that case the purchase of the house would not 
 cause any constraint. If, however, there were only his 
 resources to depend on, they would have to live econo- 
 mically until his practice became remunerative. But 
 ,[ 166 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Dorothy would not object to that. Besides, she was in 
 mourning, and so would have little temptation to be 
 extravagant. So George felt that he was justified in 
 purchasing the house. He felt that he was justified 
 in doing anything that would please Dorothy. 
 
 The announcement of the engagement made a grati- 
 fying though brief sensation; George's industry and 
 Dorothy's seclusion were not favorable to a prolonged 
 flutter of excitement. People wondered how it hap- 
 pened that an ardently besought young woman like 
 Dorothy should have bestowed her hand so precipitately 
 on a left-over lover. Yet, though Gossip was mildly 
 cynical, it did not grudge George what it termed his con- 
 solation. Poor fellow, Rosamond had led him a dance! 
 After such an experience a man can be counted on to 
 hurl himself into the arms of the first attractive woman 
 who is kind to him; but, usually, attractive women are 
 on their guard against presenting themselves as a re- 
 fuge. Of course, alone with her mother in suddenly 
 tragic circumstances, Dorothy must have been espe- 
 cially susceptible to sympathy. George must have ap- 
 peared at the "psychological moment." Dear Gossip, 
 what phrases escape you! 
 
 Hetty Mallory was delighted with her brother's 
 achievement. More worldly minded than George, she 
 speculated with her husband as to the probable size of the 
 Vasmer fortune and wondered if any important share 
 of it had immediately devolved upon Dorothy. On this 
 point she tactfully tried to elicit information from her 
 brother, but soon satisfied herself that he knew nothing. 
 As a prospective sister, she was attentive to Dorothy, and 
 I 167 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 liberal with advice on various subjects, from the proper 
 way of humoring George at breakfast to the choice of 
 curtains for the drawing-room. Hetty, in her energy 
 and conscious competence, could not help being officious, 
 and Dorothy, who had been prepared to love everybody 
 and everything connected with George, could not help 
 stiffening against Hetty's well-meant intrusions. She 
 was sorry, but she did not care for George's sister. 
 
 The young men at the club which it had been George's 
 custom to frequent arranged a dinner in honor of one 
 whom they now saw but seldom. It was a festivity of a 
 kind in which he had always been a leading and hilarious 
 spirit. There were twenty of them who gathered in the 
 upper room with its oaken beams and shuttered windows. 
 The long table was lighted with tall candles in pewter 
 candlesticks, the boards were bare, the feast was of an 
 elaborate simplicity nothing but oysters and butter- 
 ball ducks and champagne. Steve Foster clinked 
 glasses with George and reminded him of the last time 
 they had drunk together. "You're happier now and 
 I'm just the same," he sighed. Later in the evening 
 he lamented that he had overslept and missed the sail- 
 ing. "It it had not been for that, who knows? They 
 might be giving a dinner here for me. Who knows? 
 Who knows? " He mused profoundly, gazing at his glass. 
 
 There was a piano in the corner; Lloyd Evans seated 
 himself at it and played the accompaniment for the 
 choruses. Through the haze of cigar smoke in the dim 
 light, the club paintings on the walls assumed the appear- 
 ance of old masters : at least to the eyes of the celebrants. 
 Mellow was the word. " For he 's a jolly good f ello-o-w," 
 [ 168 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 they sang again and again with ever deepening feeling. 
 The attenuated figure of Steve Foster was perceived 
 weaving about in a dance of his own improvising, his 
 arms held like a kangaroo's, his long hands flopping 
 from the wrists. 
 
 George rose and got to the head of the stairs. "Good- 
 night, fellows," he shouted, and then two of them 
 clutched him, and the others gathered round; consterna- 
 tion showed on their faces. " You 're not going yet ! It 's 
 only about eleven. Stay, and we'll have a meeting of the 
 Aurora Club." 
 
 It had been George who had originated that fictitious 
 institution; he might be supposed, therefore, to have a 
 feeling of loyalty to it. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said. "But I have some work early 
 to-morrow morning it would n't be fair to the pa- 
 tients. I 've had a bully time. Good-night, fellows." 
 
 Descending the two flights of stairs he heard Steve 
 Foster screaming after him over the banisters, " Scelerat I 
 oh, Scelerat / " A chorus was in full swing when he closed 
 the door of the club behind him. 
 
 His boisterous days and nights were over; he walked 
 across the Common to his rooms, breathing in the sweet 
 cool air and thinking tenderly of Dorothy.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE GREATEST OF ALL DAYS 
 
 AFTER breakfast on the morning of his wedding 
 day, George took his surgical kit and walked as 
 usual through the Public Garden to Dr. Armazet's 
 hospital. He was early and the morning was fine, so he 
 walked slowly. He wondered if any of those whom he 
 passed could detect from his appearance that this was a 
 day of great significance to him. He himself was serenely 
 rather than exultantly aware of it. His bride was docile 
 and adoring; he contemplated her in his thoughts with 
 a tranquil pleasure. What gentle gray eyes she had 
 and they could sparkle, too; they would be both gentle 
 and sparkling when next they looked into his, for that 
 would be when she joined hands with him before the 
 clergyman. And how soft and sweet was her voice! 
 Soft and sweet would it be, indeed, when next he heard 
 it musically murmuring the responses that should make 
 her his wife. Never in his thoughts of Rosamond had 
 passion merged into tenderness more than now in his 
 thought of Dorothy. The trees of the Garden were in 
 their full October glory it would be a shining world 
 of blue and gold into which he would take his bride. 
 New Hampshire hills and lakes were awaiting them; 
 there would be tramps along roads glowing with sumach 
 and oak, climbs through enchanted forests to purple 
 summits, canoeing on breeze-swept waters. Then back 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 to work and usefulness and a romantic domesticity 
 for, after all, to the young lover on the brink of marriage, 
 what is more truly romantic than this novel domesticity 
 into which he is to plunge? 
 
 In his white duck uniform, bending over patients, 
 dressing and bandaging wounds, George forgot the day, 
 the girl, the romance. The nurses, who remembered, 
 watched him with smiling and admiring eyes. Late in 
 the morning one of them came to him eagerly. "A 
 telephone call for you, Dr. Brandon," she said. "It's 
 Miss Vasmer." 
 
 George stepped out into the hall; the telephone was 
 in an awkwardly exposed place. Aware of the interested 
 audience in the next room, he was somewhat constrained 
 in his answers. And he would have liked not to be es- 
 pecially when she said, "Did I interrupt you, George? 
 I felt I wanted to hear your voice." 
 
 How hard to reply to that, with four alert young 
 women, to say nothing of that feminine entity, Central, 
 pricking up their ears! 
 
 "Did you?" It sounded tame, he knew. "I wanted 
 to hear yours." 
 
 "Are you feeling excited about this afternoon?" 
 
 "Yes, are you?" 
 
 "Awfully excited. Guess who are to be at the wed- 
 ding?" 
 
 "Tell me. I can't guess." 
 
 "Rosamond and Graham." 
 
 "I did n't know they had come back." 
 
 "They got in last night. Rosamond telephoned just 
 now to ask if I would be at home this afternoon. I told 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 her if she came early enough about three as I was 
 going on my wedding journey after that. My dear, I 
 could hear the silence it was so blank ! " 
 
 "Why was it such a surprise to her?" George asked. 
 
 "She and Graham had been on a walking- trip in Scot- 
 land and had never got our letters. When I told her it 
 was you, she said she could n't believe it. But she 
 thought it was fine, and she's coming with Graham. 
 You don't mind my asking her, do you, George? " 
 
 "No, indeed." 
 
 "Only three hours now, George!" 
 
 "It goes slowly!" 
 
 "It would n't if we were together." 
 
 "Shall I come to you?" 
 
 "No. I must never take you from your work. That's 
 the first rule. And I'm breaking it this minute! Now 
 I 'm going for a ride. While I gallop I shall be thinking 
 of you, George." 
 
 "Don't let your thoughts run away with you! To-day 
 you must gallop with special care." 
 
 The nurses were smiling when he entered the room, 
 but he was not annoyed by it; he felt that to-day every 
 one was privileged to smile at him and with him. The 
 words over the telephone had come like a refreshing 
 breeze. He cared not at all that Rosamond and her hus- 
 band were to be present at his marriage; he could face 
 Rosamond without awkwardness and Graham with 
 indifference. Dorothy riding away for the last gallop of 
 her girlhood caught his imagination, his emotion, and 
 Dorothy, face aglow and eyes shining, galloping back to 
 give herself into her husband's arms, summoned all his 
 [ 172 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 tenderness. No other woman could ever again move his 
 heart. 
 
 His work for the day was finished. Bidding his pa- 
 tients good-bye, he received wan, bright-eyed smiles 
 and toneless yet sincere expressions of good wishes. 
 From the nurses he had last words of shy congratulation. 
 How kind people are, was his thought as he went down 
 the steps; how ready their sympathy with another's 
 joy ! And he wished that all the patients might recover 
 in a twinkling and that all the nurses might soon be 
 united to husbands. 
 
 The noonday sun was more bright on the Garden than 
 when George had passed through early in the morning. 
 More golden, more delusive was the glory of all the 
 withered leaves. 
 
 He lunched in his room, called in the servants and gave 
 them parting gifts, and was dressing as a man dresses 
 but once in his life, when Steve Foster entered. 
 
 "I thought I 'd look in and see if I could be of any use 
 to you at the last minute," Steve said. "Anything I can 
 do like packing a bag or taking down the notes of things 
 that you'd like to have attended to after you're gone?" 
 
 "Thanks, Steve, old man, I don't believe there's a 
 thing. Just sit and chin with me till the carriage comes. 
 I suppose I'm getting ready too soon, but I've always 
 had a feeling that if ever a man should be on time, it 
 should be at his own wedding." 
 
 "Yes, I'd be no dilatory bridegroom, you can bet," 
 remarked Foster. "Look here, coming across the Com- 
 mon ! A bunch from the Club Sterrett and Morris and 
 Ward and Wyman I guess I 'm not the only one that 
 [ 173 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 wants to see you started right. Sterrett's carrying some- 
 thing that looks like a bottle." 
 
 "You're always hopeful, Steve, always seeing 
 things! But there's rum in that sideboard; you'll do 
 me a favor if you'll pour out anything you like." 
 
 "Ordinarily at this hour I would n't think of it. But 
 in view of the occasion " With a pony of brandy he 
 acknowledged the occasion. 
 
 And he was right about the destination of the four, 
 and about Sterrett's burden. It was a bottle a bottle 
 of champagne. 
 
 "We agreed that if we couldn't drink with you at 
 your wedding, we'd have a glass with you just before 
 it," Sterrett explained, as he unwrapped his parcel. 
 "I've had it on ice at the club for the last half- 
 hour." 
 
 George, with one flap of his collar buttoned, set out 
 the glasses. "A handsome thought," he said. "And I 
 wish I could have you all at my side during the ceremony. 
 That's the only thing I regret about this wedding 
 the absence of my friends." 
 
 Sterrett carefully filled the glasses. "We shall be 
 thinking of you. Here's to you both, George." 
 
 Round the circle the glasses clinked and were drained 
 in a meditative silence. It lasted while George resumed 
 operations before his mirror. 
 
 "You won't go back on us all at the club, I hope," 
 said Sterrett. " You '11 still come round once in a while? " 
 
 "Whenever I can," George answered. "I don't mean 
 to lose you fellows." 
 
 He finished his dressing. "Yes, you'll do," said 
 [ 174 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Wyman. "You look the complete bridegroom. No- 
 body would ever take you for anything else." 
 
 "Yes," agreed Ward, "I bet you'll be spotted all 
 through your honeymoon." 
 
 " You're all right, George," said Steve Foster. 
 " When she sees you she won't be sorry." 
 
 George looked at his watch. "Quarter of an hour 
 more. You don't see a carriage down below, do you, 
 Steve?" 
 
 Foster thrust his head out of the window and drew it 
 in again. "Yes, it's at the door." 
 
 "Then I think I'll be going. As I said to Steve, I 
 can't run a chance of being late at my own wedding." 
 
 "We'll see you on your way," said Sterrett. "Sure 
 you have the ring?" 
 
 All five crowded into the elevator with him; each of 
 the five solemnly shook his hand before he entered the 
 carriage. His last glimpse of them was as they stood in a 
 semicircle on the sidewalk, congratulatory, yet subdued. 
 
 It was so short a distance to Mrs. Vasmer's house and 
 the day was so fine that to drive seemed absurd. But 
 George had felt that to walk to his wedding would be 
 too ostentatious a piece of simplicity; it would amount 
 almost to an indecency. To a well-brought-up Bostonian 
 of George's generation there is no difference between 
 publicity and indecency. At any rate, on this brief, 
 momentous drive George secluded himself decently in 
 the musty dimness of the Charles Street hack. Decently, 
 too, rapidly and decently, without permitting himself 
 to be a spectacle for possibly curious and skulking eyes, 
 he slipped out of the hack and into the Vasmer vestibule, 
 I 175 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 and although he was still a quarter of an hour ahead of 
 time the door opened to him mysteriously, spontane- 
 ously. 
 
 For the next ten minutes he was immured in a small 
 upper room; there presently the clergyman joined him 
 and put on his surplice, chatting meanwhile with pro- 
 fessional ease about inconsequential things the state 
 of the weather, and the ducks that he had seen flying 
 south, and the color of the trees out in the country. 
 October, said the clergyman, was a fine month to be 
 married in. George watched him and thought that it 
 was the first time he had ever seen a clergyman getting 
 into his surplice. In a remote, subconscious way he was 
 surprised to find that priestly garments were donned 
 in a matter-of-fact and unceremonious manner. 
 
 "It's time for us to be going down," said the clergy- 
 man. 
 
 George followed him obediently out into the hall. 
 Then, wonderfully, from a room at the head of the stairs 
 issued Dorothy, in her bridal white; she wore no veil, 
 her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were softly radiant as 
 they looked at George, and her lips trembled in a smile. 
 She slipped her hand in his arm and with steady step 
 accompanied him down the stairs behind the clergyman. 
 The light pressure of her fingers, the perfume of her shin- 
 big loveliness, the light in her gray eyes, and the bloom 
 of her lips and cheeks as she looked up at George set 
 all the strings of feeling in him quivering. He laid his 
 hand on her finger tips and whispered, "My lovely little 
 bride!" She whispered in reply, "I love you, dear." 
 
 Following the clergyman, they entered the big draw- 
 I 176 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ing-room. A little group of people was assembled there. 
 Rosamond, standing close by the door, was the first 
 person to meet George's gaze. For one instant they 
 looked gravely into each other's eyes, and in that in- 
 stant George had a flashing vision of the moment when 
 Rosamond, passing down the aisle to her wedding, had 
 intercepted his glance. The vision passed; he and 
 Dorothy side by side faced the clergyman, who stood in 
 front of a fireplace about which were heaped and wreathed 
 white roses and laurel. 
 
 The clergyman was pronouncing the opening words of 
 the service. He was not one of those who read the mar- 
 riage service in a tone that emphasizes to a frightened 
 pair the dreadful, irreparable nature of their act. His 
 voice was reassuring, pleasantly confidential; it seemed 
 to remind them that they were being married, not buried, 
 and to intimate an approving sympathy with the joy- 
 ousness with which they made their promises. In spite 
 of that, sobs from some one near by were once or twice 
 audible, and George felt without seeing that Mrs. Vas- 
 mer had her handkerchief to her eyes. And twice, 
 for all the sweet fearlessness in her low voice, Doro- 
 thy's lips trembled once when the clergyman ad- 
 dressed the solemn, searching question to her, and 
 again when she looked at George and offered him her 
 finger for the ring. 
 
 They were pronounced man and wife. 
 
 The clergyman, suddenly beaming, shook hands, first 
 
 with Dorothy, then with George. They turned and 
 
 faced the others. Mrs. Vasmer was at once in her 
 
 daughter's arms, and in a few moments delivered her- 
 
 [ 177 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 self up to George. She was speechless with emotion, but 
 in the relieved hum and rustle that now broke forth 
 her speechlessness went unrecognized. Hetty Mallory, 
 following her close, was not so contained. Hetty cer- 
 tainly was never afraid of the sound of her own voice, 
 and she saw no reason why it should be subdued 
 at a wedding at so eminently satisfactory a wed- 
 ding. 
 
 "My dear, if you knew how sweet you look! And it's 
 the right way to be married just your very dearest 
 round you, the people that really care. And oh, I can't 
 tell you how glad I am! It's the dearest wedding, the 
 dearest room for it!" And so on, and so on, copiously 
 from Hetty. 
 
 Philip Mallory followed her, then came some aunts 
 and uncles, then Rosamond and Graham. Of the dozen 
 guests they were the only ones not immediately con- 
 nected with the family of either bride or groom. 
 
 "Dear Dorothy!" Rosamond said and kissed her. 
 Somehow there seemed nothing else to say. 
 
 "Were you surprised?" 
 
 "Yes. Awfully surprised." 
 
 It was an awkward moment; Graham came in with, 
 "I'm perfectly delighted, Mrs. Brandon," and Rosa- 
 mond moved on to George. 
 
 "Sudden and quick we've taken a leaf out of your 
 book, Rosamond," George said with a smile. "We're 
 going to live round the corner on Marlborough Street; 
 I hope you '11 be near us." 
 
 "I wish we might be. But we're going out of town 
 out near Dover." She hesitated a moment and said in 
 I 178 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 a lower voice, "Now that you've married Dorothy, 
 you 're twice my friend, George. She 's the best 
 there is." 
 
 "Yes," he answered. "And you're a brick, Rosa- 
 mond." He gripped her hand and then her husband's, 
 and Rosamond stood aside, with a queer stinging in her 
 heart and a queer contentment there too. 
 
 It was a rather stiff little party; the very smallness 
 of it in the big house made gayety impossible. Dorothy 
 and George radiated joyousness, Hetty Mallory was 
 jubilantly happy, Rosamond contrived to be conscious 
 of her contentment, which was wrung occasionally by 
 twinges of something that she did not regard as jealousy. 
 But Mrs. Vasmer, try as she might, was a forlorn figure, 
 and the aunts and uncles contributed no great respon- 
 siveness. Possibly they felt that Dorothy might have 
 waited longer after her father's death, or that she might 
 have done better than marry a young man of small for- 
 tune and a migratory record. No doubt they were too 
 sympathetic with Mrs. Vasmer's foretaste of loss and 
 loneliness to adopt a festive mood in a situation which 
 she dominated all the more when she tried to put her- 
 self in the background. Dorothy cut the cake and Mrs. 
 Vasmer's brother, Mr. Hugh Clarke, proposed the health 
 of the bride and groom ; that promoted a little flicker of 
 vivacity. But although the food was delicious, no one 
 seemed to have an appetite for it, and opened bottles 
 of champagne stood quietly sighing away their souls. 
 Rosamond, oppressed after a little while by the atmos- 
 phere of dullness, went to Dorothy to make her de- 
 parture. 
 
 f 179 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "But I 'm just going up to dress," Dorothy exclaimed. 
 "And I want you to come up with me." 
 
 That desire was not to be resisted, though Rosamond 
 felt sorry for Graham. 
 
 In her room Dorothy rattled away to Rosamond, 
 excited, happy. Yes, their honeymoon would have to 
 be a short one; George was so very busy; Dr. Armazet 
 was a perfect pig the way he took up all George's time 
 much as ever that he let him get married. 
 
 "Dr. Armazet?" questioned Rosamond; and the ex- 
 planation freed her from the sense of responsibility for 
 interfering with a man's career which had haunted her 
 thoughts. Thankfulness and contentment spread within 
 her; she surprised Dorothy by suddenly hugging her 
 close, kissing her, and exclaiming, " Oh, Dorothy, dear, 
 you're both going to be happy and I 'm so glad ! " 
 
 "I hope I'm not being cruel and heartless to poor 
 mother," Dorothy said. "Poor dear, she tries to comfort 
 herself; she feels that father is with us to-day giving 
 us his blessing; oh, if he only were! I want to believe it, 
 too; do you suppose our generation can believe, the way 
 people used to, Rosamond?" 
 
 "No," Rosamond answered, "I don't. But I am sure 
 that some things are as sacred as they ever were love 
 and marriage." 
 
 "So many people don't seem to believe even that," 
 sighed Dorothy. "I'm glad I'm not one of them. 
 Oh, I have n't shown you my ring." She held out her 
 hand and let Rosamond examine and admire the dia- 
 mond. "And this brooch is George's wedding present 
 to me; is n't it lovely!" 
 
 [ 180 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 It was an aquamarine, large and lucid and lustrous 
 and the sight of it suddenly produced one of those sharp 
 stabs in the heart of Rosamond's contentment. In- 
 stinctively she laid her hand on her own aquamarine 
 pendant. 
 
 "Oh, you're wearing one, too," Dorothy exclaimed. 
 "I never saw it before. Was that one of your wedding 
 presents?" 
 
 "Yes." Rosamond calmly laid her pendant beside the 
 brooch. "Yours is much larger and handsomer. That's 
 as it should be a man's present to his bride. I do think 
 George has wonderful taste in stones." 
 
 There was a knock on the door; then a maid's voice 
 said, "Dr. Brandon is all ready, Mrs. Brandon." 
 
 "Good-bye, you dearest girl." Dorothy clung to 
 Rosamond a moment; Rosamond clung to her. Then 
 Rosamond went alone down the stairs. 
 
 Her appearance caused an immediate movement of 
 eagerness in the scattered groups; Mrs. Vasmer, whose 
 sense of her duties as hostess had chained her to the 
 drawing-room, when her heart yearned to the dressing- 
 room, hastened to take up a position at the foot of the 
 staircase. Soon Dorothy and George descended 
 Dorothy just as radiant in black as she had been in 
 white, and somehow the perception of that struck a pang 
 to her mother's heart. One swift embrace, two quick and 
 nestling kisses, and her girl was gone. 
 
 "Was it rather dismal for you, Graham?" asked 
 Rosamond, as they drove away. "I was sorry to leave 
 you all alone." 
 
 "It wasn't bad. I found that Mr. Clarke had been 
 I 181 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 in the Twentieth Massachusetts went all through the 
 Wilderness Campaign; I had quite an interesting talk 
 with him. He has some mighty sensible views about the 
 militia. I" 
 
 "Dorothy looked sweet; she is sweet. But it seemed 
 to me an awfully dismal party." 
 
 Graham glanced at his wife and said after a moment, 
 quite timidly, "You mean you you didn't quite 
 like to see him married?" 
 
 "Yes. I'm jealous." She glanced at her husband's 
 troubled face. "And Graham, dear, his wedding present 
 to her was an aquamarine bigger and handsomer 
 than name!" Her voice as she announced it was queru- 
 lous, on the verge of tearful. 
 
 Graham burst into laughter and squeezed her hand 
 caressingly. And then the tears started from her eyes, 
 and she cried, 
 
 "Oh, I know it's silly, Graham, dear, and I do love 
 only you and I suppose under the circumstances it 
 was just the right and proper thing for him to have done 
 and yet it made me feel so badly so badly ! "
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 ROSAMOND DWELLS UPON HER DESTINY 
 
 THE place where Graham and Rosamond made their 
 home was in the Dover hills, forty minutes by train 
 from Boston. Five years before Graham had bought the 
 abandoned farm and renovated the stables and house. 
 The hunt club of which he was a leading and faithful 
 member had its quarters less than a mile away. Graham 
 had given his place the name, "Sunset Acres"; lying on 
 a westerly slope it faced at the bottom of the hill a pine 
 grove over which on clear, calm evenings the sunset 
 light seemed to linger and slumber. 
 
 Here he had spent more time than in the lodgings on 
 Mount Vernon Street, which he had retained until his 
 marriage. Rosamond had been enchanted with the idea 
 of living in the country; she had been enchanted with 
 the house and the place, which Graham had restored 
 to some trimness. The house had to be enlarged; the 
 work had been well under way at the time of their mar- 
 riage, and they returned to find it completed. 
 
 It was a two-story wooden house, L-shaped, painted 
 white, with French windows opening on a wide veranda, 
 at the end of which a glassed-in sun parlor was gay with 
 flowering plants. In the angle of the ell, the driveway 
 swung round a circular grass plot and then curved down 
 between rows of shrubs to the road. On the slope above 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 the house was an apple orchard; an upstairs balcony, 
 that Graham had converted into a sleeping-porch, was 
 partly sheltered by the spreading top of an ancient 
 Baldwin tree. Within the house, on the first floor, the 
 living-room occupied the whole of the wing, a big, low- 
 studded room with a wide fireplace and massive chim- 
 ney breast flanked by books from wainscot to ceiling. A 
 tiny hall, out of which ascended a straight and narrow 
 little staircase, divided living-room from dining-room. 
 Dark red curtains and rich-colored rugs and dull-finished 
 mahogany softened the sharpness of the light that 
 streamed in at the long windows and glanced from pol- 
 ished floor and cold white surfaces. 
 
 It was a snug and comfortable house for a newly mar- 
 ried pair. And altogether it was a very complete coun- 
 try place; it had its artesian well and windmill, its barn 
 and poultry yard and remote piggery, its vegetable gar- 
 den, orchard, hay-field, wood-lot, and neat stone walls. 
 Rosamond declared that she did not mind the loneliness. 
 They were three miles from the village, half a mile from 
 the railroad, but scattered about among the hills within 
 walking distance were the newly built houses of other 
 adventurous newly wedded persons. Rosamond counted 
 on having friends out to lunch with her during the week 
 and on coming in to Boston frequently herself; she would 
 always have week-end parties; and she would find occu- 
 pation enough in learning to manage the farm; she as- 
 sured Graham that she meant to take that care off his 
 hands. Graham laughed and said that John Wilkes, the 
 farmer who was their nearest neighbor and who worked 
 the land on shares, had already done that for him; but 
 [ 184 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Rosamond was of the opinion that with a little experi- 
 ence she could manage more economically. 
 
 No, she was not lonely, nor did time hang heavy on 
 her hands. She and Graham were well settled before the 
 hunting season was over; she took some of those early 
 morning rides with him. There were two hunters in the 
 the stable; she loved riding, and on the days when she 
 could not ride with Graham she liked to feel a double 
 responsibility for exercising the horses. She gave one 
 of the hunt breakfasts and felt triumphant because it 
 was a success; people admired the house and seemed to 
 like her and they all had such an obviously high 
 opinion of Graham ! And as the days went by, she found 
 that she liked him better and better herself. His pre- 
 occupations, that had been so disconcerting on the 
 wedding trip, were less frequent; now that she was not 
 seeing him every minute, he did not wear her patience 
 thin; the place supplied them with things to do together, 
 things in which they were equally interested. Rosamond 
 found herself reluctant every morning to have her 
 husband leave the house, expectant every afternoon 
 when the time for his return drew near; and she re- 
 membered with a sense of happy contrast certain honey- 
 moon mornings when she would have been perfectly 
 delighted to have Graham go away and stay away. 
 Often during the day she would visualize his face, in 
 different expressions that she knew, and recall the sound 
 of his voice and of his laugh. She resorted to this exer- 
 cise of memory and imagination more frequently now 
 than in the time of her engagement. Thursday was her 
 blue day, for that evening Graham always remained in 
 I 185 1
 
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 town to drill his Troop, and though her father or Ruth 
 usually came out to pass the night with her and keep her 
 from feeling lonely, Rosamond experienced invariably 
 a disturbing apprehensiveness. Graham was a wonder- 
 ful rider, but at these drill meetings he did such dan- 
 gerous things ! She wished he were safe at home with her. 
 And yet she would not have had him give up his brilliant 
 equestrian performances. They made her all the more 
 proud of him. Only, in the nights when she imagined him 
 rolled under the hoofs of the galloping steeds, she lay 
 awake in her bed and waited and waited waited 
 until she heard the distant whistle as the last train from 
 Boston slowed down at the station; waited until she 
 heard steps on the veranda and the closing of the door; 
 waited until Graham's arms were round her and his kiss 
 pressed against her lips; then, thankfully, happily, she 
 closed her eyes and drifted into sleep. 
 
 She wondered how she could ever have doubted her 
 love for Graham. Those days seemed very, very long 
 ago. 
 
 Yet there were occasions when she was aware that 
 George Brandon's charm for her still existed, when she 
 rebelled against the tyranny of sentimental memories. 
 Sometimes Dorothy came to see her, and then Rosa- 
 mond would think, "How strange that she should be 
 more to George than I am! He's known me so much 
 longer, so much better, and he cared for me so much. 
 I wonder if he 's satisfied. I wonder if Dorothy is satis- 
 fied." 
 
 His transfer of allegiance constituted Rosamond's 
 only reason for feeling unsatisfied. She did not see him 
 I 186 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 often; he seemed never free to make an expedition into 
 the country. In the little Marlborough Street house 
 Rosamond often lunched with Dorothy. These luncheons 
 were early, for by half-past one the dining-room had 
 to present the appearance of a waiting-room for patients. 
 Sometimes on these occasions Rosamond encountered 
 George. He usually came in when she and Dorothy had 
 nearly finished. He ate rapidly, chatted rapidly, and at 
 the earliest moment excused himself in order to with- 
 draw into his office. 
 
 "He must be very busy," Rosamond said once when 
 his departure seemed quite abrupt. She felt a little 
 piqued remembering in days past how easy it had 
 been to hold his interest. 
 
 " He is," Dorothy answered. And the air of pride with 
 which she stated the fact roused in Rosamond a sense 
 of rivalry, a desire to establish the point that Graham 
 was a harder-working man than George. 
 
 "You don't know how lucky you are, having your 
 husband at home for luncheon every day," she said. 
 "And it must make such a pleasant break for him. Poor 
 Graham has only time usually to stand up at a counter 
 and eat a sandwich. And he never gets home in the 
 evening until almost seven o'clock." 
 
 "Oh, my dear," replied Dorothy. "You're lucky to 
 be able to count on him then and he 's lucky to be 
 able to count on his dinner hour. Half the time I dine 
 alone. Last week George spent two whole nights with a 
 patient that Dr. Armazet thought needed to be watched 
 every minute. How the poor boy stands it I don't know. 
 Do you think he's looking very fagged, Rosamond?" 
 [ 187 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "No, not in the least." 
 
 Rosamond had a bewildered feeling of resentment; 
 she wondered if she should ever accustom herself to 
 Dorothy's proprietary tone in speaking of George. And 
 it irritated her vaguely to feel that when she and George 
 were together her self consciousness exceeded his; she 
 realized that his interest in Dorothy and in his work had 
 effaced her, and she was obliged to admit to herself that 
 when she went to lunch with Dorothy she looked forward 
 with undue expectancy to seeing George. 
 
 Dorothy enlarged upon his work and Rosamond lis- 
 tened, divided between jealousy and interest. It was 
 work that she could understand, better, she felt, than 
 Dorothy, who declared that she never let George com- 
 municate to her any graphic surgical details. Rosamond 
 had no squeamishness in that way. She could have fol- 
 lowed with the thrill of excitement a narrative, however 
 pathological, that illustrated qualities which she ad- 
 mired. Even while Dorothy recounted to her the evi- 
 dences of George's success, Rosamond thought, "What 
 a pity that she is n't more appreciative!" 
 
 The exclamation recoiled upon herself. She had ear- 
 nestly tried to establish an intelligent understanding 
 of Graham's work; she had learned that he derived the 
 chief part of his income from an annual retaining fee 
 as counsel for a large manufacturing corporation, and 
 that his practice concerned itself principally with the 
 affairs of corporations; it all seemed to her very intricate 
 and undoubtedly it required intellectual processes of a 
 high order. But she had to confess that she was more 
 interested in the remuneration that Graham received 
 [ 188 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 for his work than in the work itself. She had not a sor- 
 did mind, she was innocently proud of her husband's 
 prosperity and success. Every fresh illustration of it 
 pleased her and brought him a hug of delight. After all, 
 they had subjects enough to talk about though on 
 this particular afternoon, when she came from Dorothy's 
 house, Rosamond could not help thinking how perfect 
 it would be if Graham were a doctor; she could have 
 been so much more his companion then. 
 
 That evening at Sunset Acres there was a family 
 party: Rosamond's father and her sister Ruth and her 
 brother Ralph all were there. Ralph, a freshman at 
 Harvard, had come over to spend the night and follow 
 the hounds the next morning; he sought every oppor- 
 tunity to attract the favorable attention of his brother- 
 in-law, whom he admired enormously; with Graham's 
 eye on him he rode with a recklessness which it frightened 
 him afterwards to think of, for he was not a good rider; 
 with Graham's eyes on him, he discoursed modestly of 
 his tackles on the football field; his ambition was to ride 
 well enough and grow old enough to be taken into the 
 Troop. Having done and said all that was possible to 
 commend himself without seeming too openly asser- 
 tive, he would sit quietly looking at Graham, listening, 
 watching, quite openly a worshiper. He thought better 
 of his sister since she had married Graham; he had al- 
 ways been afraid that Rosamond would marry some one 
 whom he should be obliged to term a "dub" and by 
 a dub he meant every man who could not sail a boat, 
 ride a horse, play a fair game of tennis, swim the "crawl " 
 stroke, and enjoy the humor of the Rogers Brothers. 
 I 189 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Indeed, every one in the Ramsay family admired 
 Graham even Ruth, who had been disappointed at 
 first that it was he and not George who was to be her 
 brother. Graham always noticed her clothes and re- 
 membered what he had seen her in last. He thought she 
 had pretty hair, too, and he often pleased her by re- 
 marks about the dangerous, the insidious twinkle in her 
 eye. He made her feel that when she grew up and "came 
 out," she might be quite fascinating, perhaps; she hardly 
 dared to hope it, but it was a comfort to be so approved 
 of, especially when Ralph was in the habit of making 
 such "jarring" remarks about one. 
 
 Mr. Ramsay sat in a deep armchair before the fire 
 and discussed with his son-in-law the question of 
 strengthening the navy. Graham, sitting on a bench in 
 an angle of the chimney breast, smoked a cigar and 
 placidly upheld the safe and sane policy of building four 
 new battleships a year. Mr. Ramsay, who did not 
 smoke, irritably condemned such a wasteful and brutal- 
 izing programme. Ralph annoyed his father by express- 
 ing approval of Graham's views. Rosamond and Ruth, 
 knitting neckties side by side on the sofa, did not ven- 
 ture into the argument. 
 
 Mr. Ramsay was an idealistic and philosophical stock- 
 broker; that, at least, was his own conception of himself. 
 A slim, spare man of much nervous activity, he was a 
 creature of whims, prejudices, and superstitions. His 
 hobby was the promotion of peace, the abolition of wars; 
 he engaged with gusto in petty broils and violent alter- 
 cations, and then in a sudden tide of good feeling rushed 
 to make magnanimous concessions. He had prospered 
 [ 190 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 in business, for he was a shrewd adviser to his customers, 
 but he frequently said that if he were to show any one 
 a list of ninety per cent of the investments or specu- 
 lations that he had made, the astonished person would 
 exclaim, "What poor fool did this?" He was likely to 
 have a prepossession in favor of any reputed gold mine 
 that had an engaging name; he had paid tribute to the 
 seductive sound of the Golden Hind, the Gopher of 
 Ophir, the Bright Behemoth, and the Bold Buccaneer. 
 More than half sincere had he always been in believing 
 that for him and his family a special virtue resided in 
 the letter "R;" and it had been a satisfaction to him 
 that his daughter in marrying had acquired one more 
 name possessing that magic initial. 
 
 "Well," said Rosamond finally, when what had been 
 a discussion was taking on the character of a paternal 
 harangue, "there isn't going to be any more war, 
 father, and if there were neither you nor Graham would 
 go." 
 
 "I don't know that I would n't," replied Mr. Ramsay 
 with some asperity. "I disapprove of war, but I might 
 consider it my duty to go. I should have gone to the 
 Civil War if I 'd been old enough. Of course, our recent 
 acts of aggression in Cuba and the Philippines " 
 
 Rosamond hung over him from behind his chair and 
 laid her hand across his mouth. 
 
 "Well, we'll let you dash off to the next war, dad, if 
 you insist upon it," she said. "But Graham's always 
 going to stay at home and take care of me are n't 
 you, Graham?" 
 
 Graham smiled and blew out a slow succession of 
 [ 191 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 smoke wreaths. But Ralph answered for him, quite in- 
 dignantly. 
 
 "Not much he would n't! You women seem to think 
 that all a man has to do is to sit at home and take care 
 of you, no matter what happens. Why, if there was a 
 war and I was Graham, I 'd go to it even if I was mar- 
 ried to to " 
 
 "Juliet Morris," murmured Ruth; and Ralph, who 
 was unaware that his sister had observed his budding 
 passion, flushed and subsided. 
 
 "Graham," said Mr. Ramsay, "I'll have a little of 
 the Scotch." 
 
 Presently they were talking politics, and as Graham 
 and Mr. Ramsay held opposing views on the tariff and 
 the trusts, Rosamond and Ruth soon withdrew. Ralph 
 remained to assist Graham in setting his father right 
 and succeeded only in heightening Mr. Ramsay's scorn- 
 ful eloquence. 
 
 "They're just children, Ruth," Rosamond said to 
 her sister, as she bade her good-night at the top of the 
 stairs. "You realize it about men after you 've married 
 them. And when you realize that, you love to take care 
 of them." 
 
 Yes, but they were not little children, she said to her- 
 self when she had closed the door of her room. And she 
 stood for a time without undressing, thinking of what it 
 would be to have a baby of her own in her arms at 
 her breast. "Nothing so good can ever happen to me!" 
 she sighed to herself; it was her daily sigh, her daily 
 hope. She envied the young mothers of the country-side, 
 she envied all mothers everywhere; often jealousy made 
 [ 192 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 her morbid, and her lips would quiver, her eyes would 
 fill at sight of a small baby; she would sit silent, droop- 
 ing, when young mothers talked. Each day she was 
 afraid of hearing that Dorothy was more fortunate than 
 she. And somehow that seemed to her the one thing that 
 she could not bear to feel that she could not do for 
 Graham what Dorothy could do for George. 
 
 Then one day she received a note from Dorothy tell- 
 ing her. 
 
 Rosamond flung herself upon a sofa and sobbed. After 
 a time she went to her desk and there wrote a gay, 
 light-hearted, enthusiastic letter to Dorothy, pausing 
 at intervals to wipe the tears from her eyes. She said 
 that she would begin at once upon some little garments 
 and she wondered if she could ever finish them, with 
 such an aching heart. It was so long now that she had 
 been a married woman; her case was no doubt hopeless. 
 And she had even as a girl looked forward to motherhood 
 and imagined that sometime she should have children 
 lots of curly -haired, brown-eyed, sunny -faced little chil- 
 dren; she had imagined herself seated on the floor playing 
 with them, while they tumbled against her softly; she 
 had imagined herself walking in a garden with them 
 clinging to her hands, hearing their voices and their 
 laughter. What a destiny for one childlessness ! 
 The sofa again received her while she wept.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 FURNISHING even a small house in Marlborough 
 Street is an expensive process, and neither Dorothy 
 nor George had any bargain-hunting instincts. They 
 had always been accustomed to go to high-priced shops, 
 and to pick out usually some of the highest-priced articles, 
 and George felt that it was in the nature of extraordi- 
 nary expenses to be extraordinary. 
 
 He had learned that Dorothy had no income of her 
 own. Mr. Vasmer had left all his property to his wife. 
 Mrs. Vasmer had arranged to make her daughter an 
 allowance of two hundred dollars a month, and George 
 had compelled a promise from Dorothy to spend her 
 allowance exclusively upon herself. He was sure that his 
 income was sufficient to support the household com- 
 fortably. Buying furniture, rugs, pictures out of capital 
 seemed under the circumstances a perfectly justifiable 
 thing to do. And the reduction of income occasioned by 
 such purchases was trifling only a few hundred dol- 
 lars. Mrs. Vasmer was so generous in supplying various 
 domestic needs that George felt he and Dorothy were 
 getting settled with extreme economy. 
 
 "I can't possibly spend two hundred dollars a month, 
 George," Dorothy had exclaimed. "Certainly not when 
 I'm in mourning." 
 
 And then she had proceeded, quite to her own amaze- 
 [ 194 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ment, to demonstrate how easily the thing could be 
 done. 
 
 She could not understand it, for she certainly was not 
 extravagant. To be sure, when she had lived with her 
 parents, she had frequently received from them presents 
 of clothes. But black was so inexpensive ! She sighed, 
 bewildered, over the bills. Florists charged awfully, 
 and as for cabs she determined the next month to 
 keep a record of the times she took a cab; she was sure 
 the livery stable cheated. Charities they had made 
 a considerable hole in the allowance, but she could not 
 cut down on the charities. She had always been open- 
 handed, and the Infants' Hospital and the Animal Res- 
 cue League and various other worthy causes had enlisted 
 her active interest and support. Anyway, she had to ask 
 George if he could advance some money to help her pay 
 her bills for the first month. 
 
 "I'm frightfully ashamed of myself," she said. "But 
 I thought you 'd rather have me owe it to you than to the 
 tradespeople. I 'm sure it won't happen again, and the 
 first of next month I will settle up with you." 
 
 George still had a considerable bank balance from the 
 sale of some shares to meet his initial extraordinary ex- 
 penses. The idea that husband and wife should put 
 themselves into a relation of creditor and debtor was 
 revolting to him, and he said so. 
 
 "Why, what was that promise that I made when we 
 were married?" he asked. "What's mine is yours. 
 Don't feel badly about it, Dorothy; getting started in- 
 volves extraordinary expenses, of course." 
 
 She tried hard and ran behind only ten or fifteen dol- 
 1 195 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 lars the next month. Meanwhile, George, who had un- 
 dertaken to deal with all the household bills, was quite 
 appalled. To meet them his income for the month was 
 insufficient; he had to draw against the remnant of 
 capital still left to his bank account. Obviously they 
 were living too extravagantly; with great reluctance he 
 asked Dorothy what they could do about it. She did n't 
 know ; ways of economizing were new to her. She thought 
 that perhaps they could get along without a laundress; 
 it would not be so satisfactory, of course, to send the 
 washing out, and it would be much harder on the 
 clothes. But after all, why worry? That very day her 
 mother had made them a present of a hundred dollars, 
 in addition to the monthly allowance, and had intimated 
 that she meant to do that sort of thing often. 
 
 "That's very kind of her," George answered, "but I 
 say that we make it our rule always to put every gift 
 of that kind into a savings bank. We ought to be accu- 
 mulating a reserve fund." 
 
 "But mother's so rich! She would love to help us." 
 
 "Of course; and she does. But we should n't rely on 
 her help to meet current expenses. We ought to set 
 aside whatever she gives as a sort of trust for future 
 members of the family." 
 
 Dorothy laughed; the idea of future members was still 
 as novel as it was pleasant to her imagination. "What 
 can I do, then, George?" she asked. "I'm willing to be 
 economical, only I don't know where to begin." 
 
 So George went over the bills carefully with her. He 
 suggested that perhaps they could get along with fewer 
 guinea chickens, ducks, and other delicacies. He thought 
 [ 196 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 that possibly they had been having people to dine with 
 them a little oftener than was advisable. He suspected 
 that the cook and the laundress and the waitress had 
 been getting fat on cream. "I don't know; I'm green 
 as I can be at this sort of thing," he said. "But we 
 shall have to work it out. Of course we can't spend 
 more than we've got." 
 
 "Of course not," Dorothy agreed dolefully. "But 
 oh, George, is n't it a pity I'm so extravagant!" 
 
 She set herself to conquer her vice. She discharged 
 the laundress, cut down the marketing, and became nig- 
 gardly of invitations to her friends. Then one day she 
 read in the newspaper that the cotton mill from which 
 George derived a portion of his income had passed its 
 usual dividend. A strike that had been going on for 
 three months had foreshadowed this action; neverthe- 
 less, Dorothy saw that it had disturbed her husband 
 and waited for him to speak. He did not, and so after 
 two or three days she asked him if it would be a serious 
 matter for them. 
 
 "Not so serious as if I were n't beginning to get some 
 returns from my practice," he answered. " It looks as if 
 now I should be able to count on a little extra, besides 
 what I get from Dr. Armazet." 
 
 Dorothy's zeal for economy was stimulated, even 
 inflamed. A fine, unselfish idea burned within her. 
 She would say nothing to George now, but at the end 
 of the month he would learn what a practical, unselfish 
 wife she could be. She began to deny herself the luxuries 
 to which the allowance from her mother entitled her. She 
 had fresh flowers in the house now not oftener than once 
 [ 197 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 a week. She]took no cabs, she gave up her favorite amuse- 
 ment of going to the theater, reluctantly she dropped 
 appeals for money into the waste basket; most self- 
 denying of all, when "Christmas was at hand, was her 
 determination, rigidly carried out, to buy no gifts for 
 any one costing more than a dollar. It seemed absurd 
 to be so scrupulous when one day her mother put a check 
 'for two hundred dollars into her hand and told her 
 that it was for "little extras." But when she found 
 that George felt they should be firm with themselves 
 and bury the sum in the savings bank, she agreed 
 meekly. 
 
 So she continued to practice her unaccustomed self- 
 denial. When the bills for the month came in, she was 
 able to present herself before her husband and say, 
 "George, dear, there's more than a hundred dollars of 
 my allowance that I have n't spent so you must n't 
 let the bills worry you. And I can do as well as that every 
 month really, nearly every month," she added, a little 
 reluctantly. 
 
 "Dorothy, you're a brick!" George kissed her, and 
 kissed her again with an agreeable warmth of enthu- 
 siasm; he kissed her often enough in love; she liked to be 
 kissed, as now, in praise. His doing it made her know 
 how great was her craving for just that kind of apprecia- 
 tion. "But we're all right without it, dear; I'm getting 
 prosperous; I shan't have to touch a cent of your money. 
 So you must spend it all, right away. It was n't much 
 fun economizing, was it?" 
 
 "No, not really. Though I did like the thought of 
 perhaps being a help to you, George." 
 [ 198 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "You're always that. Much more of a help to me 
 than I am to you, I'm afraid." 
 
 "No. I 'm glad you 're a doctor. You will help me, 
 won't you?" 
 
 The look in her eyes reached his heart. He held her 
 tenderly and said, " Poor little girl ! You 're not afraid? " 
 
 "Oh, not for myself, George. But sometimes for the 
 little one. I could n't bear it if things went wrong 
 and I'm glad you're a doctor and can help me. I wish 
 we were together more." 
 
 "I wish so, too." 
 
 "Shall you always be as busy as you are now?" 
 
 "So long as I am with Dr. Armazet. And afterwards, 
 when I set up for myself , let 's hope I shall be as busy." 
 
 "Yes, and of course when people need you, I ought 
 not to want to keep you from them. But I do miss you, 
 the evenings and the nights when you have to be away. 
 I think it would n't be so bad if I could really feel at 
 these times that you are making me a little the com- 
 panion of your thoughts." 
 
 "But I do!" cried George earnestly, before he had 
 time to think whether he did or not. 
 
 "Do you truly? Sometimes when you've been away 
 I 've thought of you so hard it seemed as if you must 
 know. And I 've hoped that you would speak of it and 
 show me that you felt I was with you at the time 
 but I 've always been disappointed. And sometimes I 've 
 wondered if you really cared; I thought that if you did 
 you would have known and answered." 
 
 "I fear I haven't much faith in telepathy. But, 
 Dorothy, I think of you when you don't know; I think 
 [ 199 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 of what is going to happen your happiness and 
 mine." 
 
 "Do you? And you're quite sure that you will still 
 like me when I'm not nice-looking any more?" 
 
 He laughed and patted her caressingly. "I'm quite 
 sure. As if you could ever be anything but nice-looking ! 
 Nice-looking! What a word for it! Shall we go to the 
 theater to-night? " 
 
 "Oh, yes! It's so long since you've taken me any- 
 where. What shall we see?" 
 
 They settled upon the play. George telephoned to the 
 agent to have tickets for him at the box office, and then 
 started off on his afternoon rounds. At six o'clock he 
 telephoned to Dorothy that he would have to pass the 
 evening with a patient. Should he countermand the 
 order for tickets, or would she get some one else to go 
 with her?" 
 
 "Oh, dear!" she cried. "How disappointing ! Can't 
 you possibly go, George? " 
 
 "No; I'm disappointed, too." 
 
 "And it was to be your only free night this week! 
 I 'd ordered a specially nice dinner. It makes me so cross ! 
 Well, I had my mind all made up for a spree, and I'm 
 going to find somebody and have it. Do you mind, 
 George?" 
 
 "Of course not. I want you to have a good time. 
 Then the tickets will be at the box office." 
 
 Dorothy meditated. She could probably persuade some 
 
 girl friend to accompany her, but she saw enough of 
 
 girls during the day. She felt that it would be much 
 
 more pleasant and amusing to go with a man. There 
 
 J 200 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 had been four men who had actively wanted to many 
 her, and she had seen virtually nothing of any of them 
 since her return from Europe. They had all written her 
 deeply sympathetic notes after her father's death; they 
 had all sent her very chilly congratulations upon her 
 engagement. Of course, it had been a shock to them, but 
 she thought they might have been a little more pleasant 
 about it especially since they knew how much she 
 really liked them all. Now here was an opportunity to 
 bring about a better state of mind in one of them. Which 
 one should it be? 
 
 She fixed on Hugh Shepard. He was the gayest and 
 most amusing of the four and she thought he had 
 cared about her a little more than any of the others. 
 
 She telephoned to him in the same spirit as on former 
 occasions when she had thrilled his soul with invitations. 
 
 "Hello, Hugh," she said. "This is Dorothy Dor- 
 othy Brandon. George is on a case this evening, and I 
 have theater tickets. Won't you dine and go with me? " 
 
 "Why, yes, I'll be delighted. Yes, thank you very 
 much." 
 
 There was a little hesitation in the acceptance, but 
 Dorothy was not troubled by that. He probably felt a 
 bit awkward; as soon as she saw him she could make 
 him realize how pleasant it would be just to be good 
 friends. 
 
 To her chagrin the experiment was not successful. She 
 failed to overcome Hugh Shepard's air of constraint. 
 With her sixth sense she felt that at the theater he was 
 uncomfortable that his public appearance as her escort 
 made him so. The play was disappointing, the evening 
 [ 201 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 was dull. Worst of all was the vague feeling that she had 
 somehow diminished herself in the eyes of one who had 
 been a worshiper; he thought she had exacted of him 
 homage which it was no longer a joy to render. 
 
 She bade Shepard good-night on her doorstep. When 
 she entered the house, George came out of his study to 
 welcome her. 
 
 "Did you have a good time?" he asked. 
 
 "Not especially. Oh, George, I don't believe I can 
 ever have a good time any more unless you are with 
 me!" She spoke dolefully. 
 
 "You can't expect me to be sorry for that!" 
 
 "Yes, because life is so dull! You so seldom can take 
 me anywhere. I think I shall just have to settle down 
 and find pleasure in nothing but my children ! " 
 
 He laughed, and then on a sudden impulse he pressed 
 her hand and said, 
 
 "Women are brave, and you're the bravest of them 
 all." 
 
 Her eyes shone to that. Of course it was n't true, but 
 to have George think it and say it touched her heart. 
 What did it matter about Hugh Shepard? Her husband's 
 arm was round her waist as she mounted the stairs.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE PROTEGE 
 
 WHEN the advantage of living in a house just 
 round the corner from her mother had pre- 
 sented itself to Dorothy, she had not considered the pos- 
 sible disadvantage of occupying a position almost di- 
 rectly across the street from her sister-in-law, Hetty 
 Mallory. Yet this was the situation of the house that 
 George had bought, and that it involved inconveniences 
 amounting sometimes to irritations Dorothy had not 
 been long in discovering. During the period of getting 
 settled, Hetty had been executive, bustling, practically 
 helpful and temperamentally exasperating. She charged 
 herself with all sorts of duties and responsibilities; re- 
 lieving the bride of burdens, she occasionally usurped 
 her authority. Dorothy was not bustling and vigorously 
 aggressive, but she was not incompetent; she was easy- 
 going, but she was by no means meek; and resentment 
 over Hetty's invasions of her newly created empire 
 smouldered within her. That she repressed it and did 
 not let it flame out on several provoking occasions was 
 due not to timidity, but to an unwillingness to precipi- 
 tate a situation that might be distressing to George. 
 He admired his sister, was fond of her, and deferred in 
 many things to her judgment; in those early days it had 
 wounded Dorothy acutely once or twice that without 
 [ 203 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 any reference to her he had recognized the value of 
 Hetty's suggestions and had seemed untroubled by 
 Hetty's officiousness. 
 
 After Dorothy was well established in her new house, 
 Hetty formed a habit of "dropping in." Her visits were 
 usually brief; she seldom sat down; and although there 
 was something about her that to her sister-in-law was 
 unsympathetic and irritating, Dorothy would often have 
 liked her better if she had been less flitting and frag- 
 mentary. "She does n't give me a chance to be really 
 friendly with her," Dorothy thought. "She just gives 
 herself a chance to see what kind of a state the house is 
 in." If a pah* of andirons needed polishing, Hetty would 
 be likely to say, "Isn't it odd how few parlor-maids 
 will ever polish brasses properly? I have one who simply 
 adores making them shine, but I realize what an ex- 
 ception she is." She would inspect the cyclamens in the 
 window to see if they were getting enough water, and if 
 they were not, she would promptly comment upon their 
 needs. She would recommend some breakfast foods and 
 denounce others in a perfectly authoritative manner. 
 Passing the door of George's consulting-room and glanc- 
 ing in at his untidy desk, she would remark, "Dear 
 me, I did hope that when George was married, he 
 would show some improvement in neatness," and 
 Dorothy felt that it was a veiled indictment of her fail- 
 ure to achieve neatness for him. 
 
 One morning, contrary to her usual custom after 
 
 dropping in, Hetty took a chair. "Now what? " thought 
 
 Dorothy, and prepared herself for one of the confidential 
 
 and somewhat alarmist discourses which Hetty, as an 
 
 [ 204 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 experienced mother, was in the habit of volunteering. 
 It appeared, however, as if she were merely animated 
 by a desire to talk about the Morrises' ball to which she 
 was going the next night. She really hated balls at 
 her age but Phil loved to go, and of course one must 
 humor one's husband. She had a new dress to wear 
 and described it; and all the while her bright brown 
 eyes were roving with restless interest about the room, 
 until suddenly Dorothy saw them directed in a narrow, 
 squinting expression at the top of the piano. 
 
 "No, there's none there," Dorothy remarked coldly. 
 "I dusted it off myself this morning." 
 
 Hetty was unabashed. "A great mistake, to do a 
 maid's work for her. Whenever I find that a maid has 
 neglected a task, no matter how trifling, I always sum- 
 mon her; otherwise you spoil them." 
 
 "Oh, I dare say. But sometimes, when you're con- 
 scious of so many shortcomings in yourself, you feel 
 ashamed to be always exacting perfection from others. 
 At least I do." 
 
 "Well, I don't," declared Hetty. "They've got to 
 be kept up to the mark, and the only way to do it is by 
 keeping after them. You need n't be afraid of perfection. 
 You won't get it, however exacting you are. Oftentimes 
 to do a thing yourself instead of calling a servant to do 
 it is sheer laziness bad for yourself as well as for the 
 servant." 
 
 "Perfectly true," admitted Dorothy. "But I can't 
 be exercising my character all day long. I have to rest 
 it now and then." 
 
 Hetty switched with characteristic abruptness to 
 [ 205 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 another topic. "What did you think of the play last 
 night?" 
 
 "Trash. But I did n't see you there." 
 
 "I tried to get your eye. Phil and I were on the other 
 side of the house down in front. I could n't quite see 
 whom you were with." 
 
 Dorothy smiled. Hetty's vigorous and shameless 
 curiosity was one of her traits that was more amusing 
 than annoying. 
 
 "You wouldn't have known him if you had seen 
 him. But you were right in thinking that it wasn't 
 George." 
 
 "Then it wasn't Hugh Shepard?" Hetty had evi- 
 dently derived from some source or other knowledge of 
 Dorothy's excursion with the luckless Hugh, though 
 she had not hitherto commented on it. " Phil said he 
 could see enough to be sure that it was n't; I told 
 him he must be mistaken. Well, now, who was it, 
 Dorothy?" 
 
 "His name is Hanford Sidney Hanford. He was 
 on the ship going over last summer, working his way as a 
 cattle man. George and he became quite intimate, and 
 it was on the boat that I met him at the same time 
 that I first met George. He 's a Dartmouth College man ; 
 he comes from somewhere up in New Hampshire. I had 
 never seen him since our first meeting until the other 
 day when George brought him home to dinner. He is 
 working on a newspaper here in Boston, and his ambition 
 is to write novels. He is very young only twenty -one. 
 He is living in a hall bedroom somewhere and had caught 
 a frightful cold; he had looked George up, and that is 
 [ 206 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 how George happened to get hold of him. Now you 
 know all that I do about him, Hetty." 
 
 "Except how he happened to be at the theater with 
 you last night." 
 
 "Oh, I invited him. I hoped that George could go, 
 too, but as usual he had to give out at the last moment. 
 Of course it 's very much to the boy's advantage to have 
 some recreation, and I imagine that he can't afford to 
 go to the theater often. So I mean to take him from 
 time to time." 
 
 "My dear! You don't want to get yourself talked 
 about!" 
 
 "How absurd! He 's a mere child!" An angry flush 
 stormed over Dorothy's face. 
 
 Hetty stood her ground. "Of course a woman who is 
 seen repeatedly with men other than her husband is 
 talked about. And if you will forgive the plain speaking, 
 Dorothy, hi your condition " Hetty, instead of pro- 
 ceeding to plain speaking, paused on a silence elo- 
 quently definite. 
 
 " If you will forgive the plain speaking, Hetty, I have 
 a mother who is perfectly competent to furnish me with 
 advice." 
 
 Hetty, now as red as Dorothy, rose at once. "Very 
 well; I shall say no more, of course." 
 
 She left the room with dignity. Dorothy held herself 
 tense until the -sound of the outer door being closed 
 reached her ears; then, picking up a book she hurled it 
 savagely into a nest of sofa pillows and sent after it 
 another and another. And then she dropped on the sofa 
 herself, put her head on her arms and sobbed. She felt 
 [ 207 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 outraged, insulted; what right had anyone to say such 
 things to her? 
 
 She wanted to pour her grievance into her husband's 
 ear; if he had been at home she would have rushed to 
 him. But soon she got control of her temper and her 
 senses, and then the memory of his former easy acqui- 
 escence in Hetty's domineering measures quite checked 
 her desire to seek his sympathy. 
 
 Yet George was not unsympathetic in these days. 
 When he was at home with her, he displayed always 
 gentleness and tenderness. He watched over her care- 
 fully to see that she did not do too much; he was pa- 
 tient with her impatience; he tried to keep from her all 
 his own worries worries about cases, worries about 
 money. From these he was never free in spite of his 
 cheerful and confident tone. By practicing severe econ- 
 omy in all personal expenditures he was able to maintain 
 the household without appealing to Dorothy or accept- 
 ing her frequently proffered assistance; so she went 
 cheerfully on, giving to charities, buying things that 
 pleased her, trying, as she would have termed it, to do 
 nice little things for people. 
 
 And among these pleasures which she allowed her- 
 self was the further patronage of Sidney Hanford. 
 George encouraged it; he liked Hanford and he felt that 
 Dorothy was the better at this time for having such a 
 live interest as that of developing a protege. Hanford 
 dined with them frequently, went to the theater with 
 them; on several nights when George was busy, he ac- 
 companied Dorothy alone. Whether the fact of those 
 further excursions came to Hetty's ear or not, Dorothy 
 [ 208 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 never knew; on each occasion she saw friends in the 
 audience who might very easily have communicated 
 news about her movements. Hetty, at any rate, had 
 given up the habit of dropping hi and no longer sub- 
 jected her either to pathological dissertations or cor- 
 rective suggestions; that was a thing to be thankful 
 for. 
 
 The quality of Hanford's admiration pleased Dorothy; 
 it was different from her husband's more unworldly, 
 more closely and keenly observant and at the same time 
 rather shy and deprecating. George was always con- 
 siderate and solicitous, a good practical sort of husband 
 on whose protective nature she could rely. Where he 
 fell short was in not recognizing her dependence on 
 ideas on hearing and sharing ideas; or perhaps he 
 vaguely recognized the need and yet was too driven 
 with work and too tired in the intervals to do much 
 towards satisfying it. 
 
 He came home one night at about one o'clock 
 to find lights in the drawing-room. When he en- 
 tered, Hanford was gathering up a pile of manuscript 
 from a table. Dorothy was reclining on the sofa. Han- 
 ford turned his ingenuous, deprecating smile upon 
 George. 
 
 "I'm afraid it's very late; I'm afraid I've been keep- 
 ing Mrs. Brandon up in a shameful way," he said. 
 "She was good enough to let me read her a story that 
 I've written." 
 
 "Sorry I was n't at home to hear it, too." 
 
 "It's not a success; Mrs. Brandon will tell you that." 
 Hanford's tone was rueful. 
 
 [ 209 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I've been horrid and said just what I thought, and 
 he's taken it like a lamb," explained Dorothy. 
 
 "That's something for you to remember, my dear, 
 after he 's become a lion," said George. 
 
 Hanford laughed in his embarrassed way and said 
 he guessed he was more like a sheep. 
 
 After he had gone George asked, "Was his story good 
 at all?" 
 
 "Not good enough," Dorothy answered. "But it 
 has flashes; some time he will do a thing that is worth 
 while. He 's young he was so bashful about reading ! 
 Over the passages into which he had put the most feeling 
 he blushed like a boy." 
 
 "What was his heroine like? You?" George smiled 
 at her. 
 
 "I don't believe so. Why?" 
 
 "Because it's easy to see you are his heroine." 
 
 " What nonsense ! " 
 
 "Not a bit. And if I could write, I should be put- 
 ting you into stories." 
 
 "Would you, dear?" Dorothy kissed him. 
 
 "Did he get you true to life at all?" 
 
 "Silly!" 
 
 Nevertheless Dorothy had been aware that young 
 Hanford had tried to put her into his story that the 
 strange unreal creature of maddening charm and singu- 
 lar nobility represented his conception of herself. She 
 knew it by his excessive and apologetic and blushing em- 
 barrassment over the actions and speeches of the char- 
 acter, she knew it by a subtle instinct of her own. And 
 preposterous as was his idealistic conception, it pleased 
 [ 210 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 her, and she even lay awake a little while dwelling on 
 the agreeable thought that some time Hanford would be 
 famous and would make her in one disguise or another 
 always his heroine.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 SPRING OF THE YEAR 
 
 ON a warm afternoon towards the end of April 
 Rosamond was moving slowly down the avenue 
 at Sunset Acres, lingering beside each shrub to inspect 
 the stage of its development. Already the forsythias 
 were exchanging their golden yellow for green, the first 
 leaf buds on the bare stems of the hydrangeas were be- 
 ginning to unfold, the spiraeas had decked themselves 
 in white, the prunus triloba was embowered in blossoms 
 of rosy pink; passing from one bush to another, Rosa- 
 mond touched the branches, bent over them and scruti- 
 nized the buds and the blossoms. At last she reached the 
 foot of the slope where inside the wall Graham had set 
 out some young trees in the autumn mountain ash, 
 horse-chestnuts, and maples; each one she visited with 
 the same pleased and wondering interest that she had 
 bestowed upon the shrubs. The plump smooth buds of 
 the horse-chestnuts swelled on the tips of the branches; 
 some of them had already burst open; it was as if the 
 closed little fist had opened out into the spread little 
 hand, but green, greener even than the young grass; 
 Rosamond looked at those young horse-chestnut leaves 
 tenderly, for somehow they made her think of a baby's 
 tiny hand. On the mountain ash last year's berries 
 hung in blackened clusters beside this spring's furry 
 gray buds; the red maples and the Norway maples 
 [ 212 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 seemed to be mixing up the colors of autumn with those 
 of spring, so tinted was their gay foliage with pink and 
 bronze and golden hues. They changed now from day 
 to day. "They won't be interesting in that way much 
 longer," thought Rosamond, "at least not a daily excite- 
 ment"; and she wondered if it was so with all living 
 things. 
 
 One of the horse-chestnuts was not thriving, and she 
 went close to examine it; all over the trunk were dotted 
 tiny carmine specks; she tried to rub some of them off, 
 but could not. " Oh, dear ! another pest ! " she murmured. 
 " How mean of it to attack little baby trees ! " She would 
 call Graham's attention to it, and perhaps he would find 
 a way of saving the young tree. It was wonderful, the 
 knowledge that Graham had of methods of dealing with 
 plants and trees, and he knew and liked the birds, too, 
 and all small and helpless things. Thinking of that 
 characteristic of her husband gave Rosamond in this 
 moment a special happiness. 
 
 Never in all her life had she felt as now the holiness as 
 well as the beauty of spring; never before had the mys- 
 tery and the miracle of it touched her deepest soul. She 
 felt herself as much a partaker in the mystery and the 
 miracle as the swelling buds, the blossoming pear tree; 
 she was glad that the coming of her first child should have 
 been announced to her in the spring. Already she thought 
 of it as the first child; the alteration in her outlook was 
 complete, for only a few weeks before she had believed 
 herself condemned to a life of childlessness. Now rosy 
 little figures sported in her dreams, and when she was 
 awake she had visions of a series of little babies; one 
 [ 213 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 after another they would come to be cuddled and played 
 with and held to her breast. And she did not lose sight 
 of them as they grew older; she imagined herself walk- 
 ing hand in hand with them, playing with them hi the 
 garden, seeing their chubby faces and round eyes up- 
 turned to her, hearing the funny prattle of their voices; 
 endlessly she entertained herself with these imaginings. 
 She was never lonely any more, and there had been 
 times during the winter when she had been very lonely, 
 had even, hi the feeling that she had been set apart as 
 a barren woman, desired nothing but loneliness. Now 
 all was changed; she liked to laugh with people and be 
 gay; from pleasant dreams the early morning songs of 
 birds roused her, and listening in a contented drowsi- 
 ness she drifted again into pleasant dreams; stormy 
 weather did not depress her spirits; the rain beating upon 
 the windows, the gale roaring down the chimneys, leaden 
 skies and driving clouds no longer had a baleful influ- 
 ence on her mood, but seemed to emphasize her sense 
 of inner security and peace. To a few persons she had 
 already told her secret; her own family knew of it, and 
 she had gone in to Boston one morning to tell Dorothy. 
 If there had been anything that might have clouded her 
 radiance, it would have been Dorothy's way of receiving 
 the news; Dorothy had expressed pleasure and the hope 
 that they would both have boys, and then had passed 
 on to a partly jocular description of the tediousness 
 and discomfort and indignity of the preliminary time. 
 
 "You'll feel differently when the baby comes," Rosa- 
 mond said. 
 
 "Oh, I suppose so; I hope so. I don't want to dis- 
 [ 214 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 courage you; never mind, I suppose we would go through 
 even worse for what we are to get." 
 
 Rosamond felt that she would go through anything 
 and that she could not imagine herself grumbling, but 
 she did not say this. She had been struck by the un- 
 accustomed querulous note in Dorothy's voice, and had 
 come away from the interview with an uncomfortable 
 feeling that Dorothy was disposed to reproach George 
 for having got her into such a condition and for not 
 being more attentive to her now that she was in it. 
 
 "I'm afraid she married him too suddenly," thought 
 Rosamond, forgetful of the fact that she herself had 
 married Graham almost as suddenly. "But of course 
 everything will be better after the baby comes." 
 
 And meanwhile how could one be aware of jars and 
 discords ! How could one be aware of anything but the 
 swelling joy of spring ! 
 
 From her musings and from her leisurely inspection 
 of shrubs and trees she was roused by the sound of 
 wheels approaching along the road. Looking over the 
 wall, she saw Graham seated in a buckboard beside 
 William Briggs, the village storekeeper and postmaster. 
 Briggs, who was driving, drew up to let Graham alight 
 and called out to Rosamond, "I hope you won't put a 
 crimp in his political prospects, Mrs. Rappallo." 
 
 Walking up the avenue arm in arm with his wife, 
 Graham explained. Briggs and some of the other in- 
 fluential citizens with whom he had been in conference 
 wanted him to stand as the Republican candidate for 
 election to the legislature in the autumn. They seemed 
 disinterested about it; they liked the work he had done 
 [ 215 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 as chairman of the town warrant committee; they had 
 told him that with him in the legislature the interests of 
 the district would be well taken care of. If he would 
 consent to run, they were ready to begin a quiet cam- 
 paign that would eliminate all other candidates for the 
 nomination. 
 
 "I told them I would think it over for a week," Gra- 
 ham said. 
 
 "Why should n't you do it?" Rosamond asked. 
 
 "Well, if I go into politics at all, I shall probably want 
 to stay hi it. I shall have to sacrifice some of my law 
 practice and the chance of increasing my earnings very 
 considerably. It might be wiser for me not to enter 
 politics until I have accumulated more of a practice and 
 more money." 
 
 " I don't care anything about being rich," Rosamond 
 replied. "I should n't want the children to be brought 
 up to feel that they were rich." Graham laughed, and 
 so did Rosamond, but she added, "Well, you can't take 
 any step now, Graham, without considering them, can 
 you?" 
 
 He admitted that he could n't. 
 
 "I'd rather have them grow up to know you as a 
 man working for the public interest than just for his own 
 pocket all the time. Besides, I believe you 'd be a good 
 statesman, Graham." He laughed at her quaint use 
 of the word; he laughed again when she said, "I know 
 it from the way you talked at the town meeting." 
 
 Rosamond could not understand why he should 
 laugh. She had never before tried to express she had 
 been too shy to try to express the feeling of pride 
 I 216 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 and admiration that had been hers when she sat in the 
 gallery of the town hall and heard Graham lead the 
 debate on the floor, answering questions with readiness, 
 replying to opponents with firmness and courtesy, 
 carrying with him always the majority of the voters. 
 From that day she had been convinced that in public 
 life or, as she preferred to term it, in "statesmanship," 
 there was a proper field for her husband's abilities. 
 
 They talked about it that evening; Graham gave 
 Rosamond a closer insight into his ambitions than he 
 had ever done before. Hitherto she had assumed that 
 the practice of the law and military studies fully occu- 
 pied his serious thoughts; it interested her to find that 
 he had long been nursing other aspirations. If Graham 
 should serve acceptably in the legislature, he might in 
 a few years be the choice of the party for Congress. Or 
 it might be that he should find himself a candidate for 
 some important administrative office. His chance to 
 make a start had come rather earlier than he would have 
 wished, but perhaps that was not sufficient reason for 
 declining it. 
 
 Rosamond again urged strongly the wisdom of accept- 
 ing it. But afterwards, when she had gone to bed and 
 had left Graham sitting up at work over some town mat- 
 ters, she lay awake for a little while and thought it 
 strange that she and Graham could become so absorbed 
 in discussing his career when the career that they were 
 both really interested in was that of the unborn child.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 A HUSBAND'S INDIAN SUMMER 
 
 EJune, Dorothy went to North East Harbor to pass 
 -he summer with her mother. She expected the baby 
 to be born towards the end of July. 
 
 George remained in Boston, doing double duty, for 
 Dr. Armazet was taking a six weeks' vacation in Eu- 
 rope. The little Maryborough Street house wore a 
 look of dubious hospitality; in the darkened drawing- 
 room huddled and swathed furniture peered at one sus- 
 piciously; the shades were drawn and the floors were 
 bare; only George's consulting-room retained its cozy, 
 confidential, reassuring aspect. One servant had re- 
 mained to keep house for him and to give him his break- 
 fast; he lunched wherever he happened to be, and he 
 dined at the club. The partial return to the habits of 
 his bachelor days was alarmingly refreshing; he told 
 himself that it was n't actually the life, but merely the 
 change that he found agreeable. With Dr. Armazet's 
 going abroad, George's work had diminished, so that 
 usually his evenings were times of leisure. Always he 
 found a group assembled on the club balcony overlook- 
 ing the tiny court. A lone ailanthus tree, reputed to have 
 a magical property of driving flies from the neighbor- 
 hood, raised its foliage above the railing, on which gar- 
 den boxes of geraniums and trailing vines did their best 
 to promote the illusion of an environment of suburban 
 [ 218 1
 
 greenery. At the long table thus secluded from the view 
 of neighboring windows, ten or a dozen members were 
 accustomed to dine each evening; they welcomed George 
 back to their board with cries of joy and many a cock- 
 tail. Since his marriage he had not enjoyed such relaxa- 
 tion as was now his almost every night; to sit smoking 
 with three or four others through a long evening, or to 
 play a game of billiards, or to go with a party to some 
 flimsy yet enlivening musical show revived him ; he felt 
 that socially he had been growing stale and dull. He did 
 not permit himself the irresponsible enjoyment in which 
 he had formerly indulged and for which Steve Foster 
 demonstrated an insatiable capacity; a sense of duty to 
 his patients withheld him. But to return for a time, from 
 domestic seclusion and professional service, to the mer- 
 riment and gayety of former days, compensated him 
 surprisingly for his loneliness at home. Moreover, the 
 relief from financial pressure was instantaneous and 
 welcome. Before his marriage he had never been obliged 
 to make the close calculations which had now become a 
 weekly, almost a daily, task; he had lived comfortably 
 with seldom an impulse to overstep the limitations of 
 his income. Recently, without that impulse he had felt 
 himself thrust nearer and nearer the boundary; only 
 by incessant struggling did he maintain his position 
 within the lines; and now to feel that there were three 
 months of respite in which he might accumulate a sur- 
 plus had an enlivening influence upon his spirits. 
 
 But his greatest satisfaction consisted in receiving 
 Dorothy's letters. They were the first letters that she 
 had ever written to him; they constituted almost a new 
 [ 219 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 phase of married life. The spoken words of love in daily 
 intercourse were sweet, but they had grown of late in- 
 frequent; an attitude of the heart was beginning to 
 be taken for granted, and occupation and preoccupa- 
 tion had together tended to curtail expression. Let- 
 ters carried messages and words of affection that lips 
 had ceased to utter. George, reading the first of these 
 letters, was moved deeply. "I miss you, George, dear," 
 Dorothy wrote. "I think it must be true that people 
 need to be separated once in a while to know how much 
 they care for each other. I look forward so to your com- 
 ing on the fifteenth of next month; I shall feel safer when 
 you are here. Would n't it be exciting if I should have 
 something brand-new to show you? But I hope not; it 
 would be too disconcerting to have him arrive without 
 his daddy here to receive him. Think about your 
 little girl oh, such an inappropriate adjective ! How 
 glad I shall be to have it all over ! Mother sends her 
 love and I'm folding a whole armful of my own inside 
 this letter." 
 
 George was smitten with a sense of selfishness. He 
 cut short his evening at the club in order to reply to 
 Dorothy's communication; he realized that without such 
 letters and the emotion they aroused and the thoughts 
 they inspired, the freedom of his days would be but 
 emptiness. Writing to her, he thought of her more ten- 
 derly than when she was visible before him; he wished 
 that he had shown her greater consideration, he imagined 
 her facing during all these months the supreme destiny, 
 fearlessly aware of the possible doom that might be 
 lurking behind the curtain of new life, and a sudden 
 [ 220 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 agony of reverence and dread seized him; with what 
 smiling heroism to await the inevitable peril ! The long- 
 ing was urgent in him to go to her and not leave her side 
 until the ordeal was past. These moments might be the 
 most precious of all their lives. He besought her to let 
 him know if she needed him; in that case no other need 
 could matter. 
 
 Her reply showed that she had been touched. But he 
 must not worry about her; she had never been better 
 in her life. Her mother was a comfort and was making 
 her visit as restful and pleasant as possible. Had he seen 
 Graham Rappallo, or heard anything about Rosamond? 
 A letter just received intimated that Rosamond was not 
 at all well. Perhaps George would look up Sidney Han- 
 ford and be nice to him during the summer. Sidney 
 had rewritten his story and made it into a short novel; 
 he had sent her the manuscript. It had its good points, 
 but she was n't sure that it would be wise to seek publi- 
 cation; in fact, she had counselled him not to make the 
 effort. Perhaps she had hurt his feelings; any way, he 
 must be very disappointed. It might please him if 
 George would show a little interest in him. 
 
 George dutifully asked Hanford to dine with him at 
 his club, and Hanford told him quite ingenuously of 
 Mrs. Brandon's condemnation. 
 
 "I've spent a week thinking it over, and to-day I 
 destroyed the manuscript," he said. "It's awfully good 
 of Mrs. Brandon to be so interested and so honest." 
 
 A few days later George received a letter from Doro- 
 thy, praising him for being so nice to the boy, and 
 saying that she was saving a note of appreciation to 
 [ 221 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 show him. Through the hot days of midsummer her 
 letters came to him as sparkling and as welcome as the 
 dew. She was sympathetic with his discomfort which 
 was wholly imaginary; she wished he might be enjoying 
 the cool breezes of North East. As a matter of fact he 
 was pursuing his practice under the most favorable cir- 
 cumstances with no domestic worries, with leisure for 
 recreation, and with congenial companions for his lei- 
 sure. The hard-worked young doctor was frequently to 
 be seen playing tennis at Longwood or occupying a 
 front row seat at a professional baseball game; and 
 his evenings spent on the cool club veranda, where ice 
 tinkled hi glasses and the smoke of cigars was wafted 
 upwards, entitled him to no special compassion. 
 
 One day meeting Graham Rappallo on the street, he 
 asked after Rosamond. Graham seemed a little blue; 
 Rosamond was not very well. 
 
 "She's hi bed, and the doctor thinks she will have 
 to stay there pretty much all the rest of the time from 
 now on. It 's very hard for her, but she 's being cheerful 
 about it willing to make any sacrifice so that things 
 shall be right in the end. Won't you come out and lunch 
 with us on Sunday? With me, that is. But Rosamond 
 would be delighted to see you." 
 
 George accepted the invitation, even while feeling that 
 the luncheon would impose a strain. He always liked to 
 see Rosamond; she would always have a charm for him. 
 He found her on that pleasant Sunday morning sitting 
 up in bed on the sleeping-porch; a light summer breeze 
 fluttered some little strays of hair across her face. She 
 wore a lace cap with a bow of pink ribbon; lace ruf- 
 [ 222 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 fles showed beneath the sleeve of her pink dressing- 
 gown as she reached out her hand. And he noticed with 
 a feeling of pleasure that within the folds of the dressing- 
 gown lay the aquamarine pendant. 
 
 "You don't look very ill, Rosamond, and you do look 
 perfectly charming," said George. "I could almost sus- 
 pect you of feigning illness in order to receive visitors 
 in this manner and costume." 
 
 She smiled. "I've been prinking for you most of the 
 morning, so I 'm glad to have the compliment. No, I 'm 
 not ill at all, but I can't do very much; and this is a 
 pleasant place to do nothing in. Sit down, George, and 
 tell me all about Dorothy." 
 
 Graham excused himself in order to mix cocktails. 
 
 George looked about him. Green-and-white awnings 
 softened the light; green wicker chairs and table and 
 Navajo rugs furnished comfortably the outdoor room. 
 Sitting up in bed Rosamond commanded a view down 
 the southwestern slope, a view that included the pine 
 woods on the right and the distant hills on the left. The 
 meadow grass near the house had just been cut and lay 
 in sweet-smelling windrows; and a pink rambler flung its 
 blossoms up over the railing beneath the awning. George 
 commented on the pleasant view. 
 
 "Yes, it needs only a glint of water; that's the only 
 lack. We thought of going to the seashore for a while, 
 but the doctor thinks I'd better stay here. And it's 
 better for Graham, too. You know he's entering poli- 
 tics but I should have let him tell you that. Never 
 mind; he will. Dorothy has only a little time to wait 
 now, has n't she? Are n't you going to her soon, George? " 
 [ 223 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "On the fifteenth." 
 
 "Go earlier if you can; take her by surprise. I don't 
 believe men know how much we need our husbands at 
 these times. Graham is so good to me; I think he gives 
 me more attention than he can well afford and even 
 then I 'm often lonely. How exciting to be like Dorothy 
 to have all those months safely behind ! November 
 seems so very far away ! " 
 
 "Yes, it 's a mean wait but I don't know anybody 
 who would find it better worth while." 
 
 She smiled a little, for the thought pleased her. She 
 remembered with a feeling of tenderness for him that he 
 had once hoped she might be the mother of his children. 
 
 At luncheon George found himself not subjected to 
 such constraint as he had anticipated. Graham was 
 friendly, even confiding, in that he described his plans 
 for his political campaign. After luncheon, when they 
 sat on the piazza smoking, Graham could not refrain 
 from expressing his anxiety about Rosamond; he grasped 
 at an opportunity to obtain encouragement and reas- 
 surance from a doctor. From the statement of conditions, 
 George felt that the outlook was not altogether hopeful; 
 he told Graham, however, that while in such cases mis- 
 haps might occur, the precautions that were being taken 
 reduced the possibility to a minimum. That this opinion 
 did not help very much he knew, glancing at Graham's 
 troubled eyes. 
 
 "The man loves her," he thought; "I was all wrong 
 about him all wrong." 
 
 He returned to Boston in a curiously chastened mood. 
 Life was often cruel to women; he could not bear to think 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 that it might be cruel to Rosamond. And it could not 
 be cruel to Dorothy! In the train he drew out of his 
 pocket her last letter and read it again with a new 
 emotion.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 MOTHER AND CHILD AND A LOST ILLUSION 
 
 DOROTHY'S boy was born on the first day of Au- 
 gust, at ten o'clock in the morning. 
 Afterwards George went out into the sunny garden, 
 where the bees were busy among the poppies and the 
 phlox stared up at him with its brightly questioning eyes. 
 He sat down on the bench under the little plum tree, 
 and then looked up at the window of the room from 
 which he had come. All was quiet there now ; he wondered 
 that he should feel so shaken, so weak; he was not ac- 
 customed to have such feelings after operations. Dorothy 
 had wished him to stay with her, and had clung to his 
 hand until she slipped over the borderland of dreams. 
 She had dreaded nothing, had borne the suffering with 
 a smile. "We won't make a tragic business of his com- 
 ing, George," was the last thing she said before she 
 passed under the ether. And she had not made a tragic 
 business of it; she had emerged into consciousness so 
 promptly as to hear her child's first lusty cry; it brought 
 a drowsy smile to her face even before her eyes could 
 focus on the little red squirming object held up for their 
 delight. George had seen the slow dawning upon her 
 of comprehension, adoration, joy; now she and the baby 
 both slept and he had come out to feel the sunlight, to 
 see and smell the flowers, and to watch the window of 
 that quiet, sanctified room. Wistaria climbed a trellis 
 [ 226 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 beneath it, a spray of leaves shook in the breeze out 
 over the open window; from within George had noticed 
 it while Dorothy clung to his hand; now he looked at 
 it from the other point of view and visualized what it 
 might see in the room the calm face on the pillow, 
 the bassinette in the corner where the indistinguish- 
 able little object slept. 
 
 Dorothy, no less than he, had wanted a boy; he was 
 the happier now for dwelling upon her happiness. As he 
 sat in the sunny garden, visions projected themselves 
 upon his mind; he saw Dorothy walking with her little 
 boy to meet him, smiles on their faces; he could not quite 
 see the little person's face under the broad straw hat 
 that shaded it, but he cquld see the smile and the short 
 white dress and the bare chubby legs; the bare chubby 
 legs broke into a tottering, toddling, twinkling little run; 
 then he felt himself grasping the warm, soft little body, 
 clasping the warm, soft little hands. His imagination 
 took erratic, ecstatic flights into the future, making 
 as it flew pictures of Dorothy and the boy the boy 
 at different ages, Dorothy always young, always lovely, 
 loving and loved. 
 
 Mrs. Vasmer came out to him, still eager and flushed 
 with excitement. She had grown stout in the last year; 
 she panted when she sat down. In her hand she held an 
 envelope. 
 
 "The prettiest little baby I ever saw," she declared. 
 "And so big and strong! Nine pounds, the nurse says. 
 Dorothy weighed eight and a half, and we thought her 
 an enormous baby. You will call him George?" 
 
 "That seemed to be Dorothy's wish." 
 [ 227 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Naturally for her father and her husband. Dor- 
 othy came through it so splendidly; I hope there will be 
 lots of little brothers and sisters. We always regretted 
 that Dorothy was the only one." 
 
 "Yes," George answered, "I hope we shall have a 
 family not too quickly." 
 
 "You must let me help now to make things easier for 
 you. Dorothy has told me that your pride forbids her 
 to devote her allowance to household expenses, but you 
 must n't have any pride now about getting little pres- 
 ents occasionally from me. And I want to celebrate 
 this day with a gift. There are two checks in this en- 
 velope; one is for little George, the other is for your- 
 self." 
 
 George protested. "I should like to put them both 
 to the credit of little George." 
 
 "No, you mustn't do that. He will have enough 
 some day. It will please me if you will use the money 
 for yourself. I know that it takes a good while for a 
 young doctor to develop a paying practice. And there 's 
 no reason why I should n't help my son-in-law. I 'm well 
 able to." 
 
 "Oh," said George, "I'm willing to be helped! Only 
 I hope you have n't been too liberal; I hope you won't 
 be. My father used to say that people were better off 
 when they were n't well off. You must n't make me feel 
 rich, mother." 
 
 "No, but comfortable," urged Mrs. Vasmer anxiously; 
 she was herself the embodiment of comfortable living. 
 "Surely worry does no one any good and I want you 
 to be free from it." 
 
 [ 228 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "When you talk like that you fill me with anxiety as 
 to the contents of this envelope!" 
 
 "Open it, do! And try to look pleasant, no matter 
 how you feel!" 
 
 George drew forth two checks, each for a thousand 
 dollars. He turned a humorous look on his mother-in- 
 law. 
 
 " I have always thought it an excellent thing for chil- 
 dren to have to support their parents, after a certain age. 
 A few more of these, and little George will be deprived 
 of a responsibility that he would cherish. It's very 
 sweet of you, mother, but honestly spare the father 
 and spoil the grandchild, if you will ! " 
 
 "All right; I shall try to spare the father a thousand 
 dollars occasionally," replied Mrs. Vasmer with one of 
 her infrequent semi-masculine plunges at humor. "No, 
 George, I have n't volunteered to help you this first 
 year, because I believe it does young married people 
 good to feel the pinch of a small income. But the virtue 
 in adversity wears off after a while and you will gain 
 nothing by being always worried about bills. And be- 
 sides, there's another thing." She put her hand on 
 George's hand caressingly. " I did feel rather badly when 
 Dorothy married you so soon after her father's death. 
 But I came to be glad she did. For you really have 
 been a son to me, my dear boy, in the time when most 
 I needed and wanted a son. So please allow me these 
 little pleasures." 
 
 "I feel this morning, mother, that I can deny you 
 nothing," said George. 
 
 He admitted to himself a healthy satisfaction in con- 
 [ 229 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 teraplating the freedom from care that would result 
 from these projected acts of generosity. He would have 
 greatly preferred to achieve that freedom by his own 
 exertions; he knew that in a short time now he would 
 have achieved it. But to have security already cover 
 him with its wings, especially in this moment when he 
 had incurred the unimaginable liabilities of parenthood, 
 was not unpleasant; and it was not unworthy, so long 
 as he did not let himself slacken in his work. 
 
 He felt that in that respect he should be under no 
 temptation. The more active the practice, the better he 
 liked it. Professional ambition had increased with pro- 
 fessional success; it had its birth in the moment when 
 Dr. Armazet had given him his chance, and it had de- 
 veloped under the close association with that untiring 
 surgeon. Sometimes Dr. Armazet would let fall an anec- 
 dote of George's father, whose intimate friend he had 
 been, though following a different branch of the pro- 
 fession; they were anecdotes that stirred the son's pride. 
 More and more George was inspired with the desire that 
 the Brandon name should go down in honor in the medi- 
 cal profession; with the birth of his child he hoped that 
 there should be a third George Brandon, M.D. His own 
 desire to achieve a reputation as a skillful operator had 
 broadened into the wish to be, like his father, sure and 
 subtle in diagnosis, sympathetic and understanding with 
 men and women; he was growing constantly more stu- 
 dious and more watchful. 
 
 And so before very long he was impatient to be back 
 at his work. Dorothy, convalescing, had not much need 
 of him; visitors kept coming to see her and the baby; 
 [ 230 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 flowers filled her room. She told him that other people 
 appreciated the baby more than he did, that he had 
 seen too many babies. Indeed, she was rather disap- 
 pointed because he did not seem to look upon the child 
 simply as something cunning and sweet and adorable, 
 a lovely little toy, but as a young human being whose 
 future claimed already serious thought. He was fussy, 
 she felt, in wanting her to diet for the sake of increasing 
 the baby's food-supply; the doctor attending her was 
 quite willing that it should be supplemented by the 
 bottle. Secretly she ascribed George's persistent urgings 
 on this point to Hetty Mallory's influence the woman 
 bragged so about the heroic treatment she endured in 
 order to nurse each of her children ten months ! 
 
 "Don't you want to give him the best possible start? " 
 George asked. 
 
 "Oh, if he were a weak little baby, but he's so strong 
 and he takes the bottle already so well ! And have n't 
 I gone through enough for him as it is ! " 
 
 "I don't think that's quite the way to feel about it, 
 Dorothy." 
 
 He had never before intimated that he was in any 
 smallest degree disappointed in her. She resented the 
 implication; she felt that out of consideration for her he 
 should have withheld his comment, and that if he still 
 loved her as he had done at first nothing could have 
 dragged such a reproof from him. She looked at him 
 bitterly and said, "Oh, very well, if you speak to me like 
 that " ; she went into the next room and asked the nurse 
 to bring her the gruel that she had rejected. She drank 
 it in George's presence with a display of anger like that 
 [ 231 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 of a passionate child; she knew that she was being and 
 seeming childish, and it only angered her the more. The 
 nastiness of the drink was as nothing compared with the 
 fact that her husband had chosen to express disappoint- 
 ment and disapproval ; she felt at that moment that she 
 hated him; She said in another burst of passion, 
 
 "Unless it's necessary, I don't want to nurse the child 
 at all. It 's a hateful, painful, horrid thing for a woman 
 to have to do; it's disgusting. I suppose you're shocked. 
 Well, a woman can be a good mother and still detest 
 the feeling that she is a sort of animal a cow! " 
 
 He said nothing; she felt that she resented more 
 than all else the condemnation of his silence. 
 
 Her mood of resentment did not pass, nor did her un- 
 willingness to make the sacrifice which she regarded as 
 so unnecessary. She extracted from both the attending 
 physician and the nurse the assurance that the baby 
 might safely be weaned at any time, and somewhat de- 
 fiantly announced to George her intention of emanci- 
 pating herself as soon as possible. 
 
 George did not attempt to override her decision. He 
 put his arm round her and said, "Of course, the kid will 
 get on finely, Dorothy." But his kindness and his 
 acquiescence did not deceive her; she knew that she had 
 disappointed him, and she in turn felt injured. It was 
 as if the merit of her act in presenting him with a son 
 was virtually canceled by her refusal to submit to a 
 tyrannical routine that would make of mothers merely 
 animals. Attributing as she did George's point of view 
 to his sister Hetty, and believing that Hetty represented 
 to him the maternal standard, Dorothy felt irritated 
 [ 232 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 and unsympathetic. She had not overcome this feeling 
 when the time arrived for him to return to Boston; he 
 was aware of a coldness in her farewell. And George 
 had a despondent foreboding that the little boy, who 
 should be drawing them closer together, might be an 
 innocent agent in driving them apart. 
 
 George's thoughts accompanied him in his journey. 
 He could not conceal from himself the loss of an illusion, 
 and he knew that he had not concealed it from his wife. 
 He had believed that she would find every duty of moth- 
 erhood a joy. The memory of her face when she had 
 emerged from anaesthesia into consciousness and looked 
 upon her child he had treasured as reflecting for him the 
 supreme loveliness of woman. Could it be that the ex- 
 pression which had seemed to him so beautifully and 
 deeply significant had been produced by only a shallow 
 pride in motherhood? 
 
 He could not help questioning; he refused to admit the 
 answer that pressed upon him with the roughness of 
 truth. In the train his thoughts reverted to Rosamond, 
 doomed to her bed for the long period of her waiting, 
 wretched in body and knowing that her hopes were in 
 peril of being thwarted, yet for the sake of the little life 
 that she was struggling to save maintaining cheerfulness 
 and courage. Suppose the baby delivered into her arms; 
 would Rosamond shirk any least responsibility of a 
 mother? 
 
 A comparison that put his wife at a disadvantage, 
 and implied that there had been a truer foundation for 
 his old love than for that which he was pledged to cher- 
 ish, could not be pursued.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A YOUNG MAN REVOLVING ABOUT A YOUNG MAN'S 
 CENTER 
 
 SIDNEY HANFORD lodged in an unfashionable 
 quarter of Boston, but his windows looked out on a 
 pleasant little park; the houses, given over to furnished 
 lodgings and employment agencies, were of a substan- 
 tial appearance that denoted a past acquaintance with 
 prosperity. The room on the third-floor front of Number 
 9 contained the usual furniture of the furnished lodgings 
 a shabby sofa upholstered in cloth of once startling 
 colors, an equally shabby and gayly upholstered arm- 
 chair, a small oak writing- table, a bed with the white 
 enamel flaking in spots from its iron bars, and a Land- 
 seer engraving to decorate a yellow wall-paper. On one 
 corner of the writing-table a pile of manuscript gave 
 evidence of industry. The drawers of the table were 
 filled with other manuscripts whose soiled and thumbed 
 appearance suggested stupidity on the part of editors 
 or inability on the part of the author. Sidney, though 
 admitting certain defects in them, preserved them with 
 the hopeful intention, when he had achieved a reputa- 
 tion, of selling them at inflated prices to the identical 
 persons who had declined them. "A double pleasure," 
 he was fond of reflecting, "to make an editor eat my 
 words and his own." 
 
 Sidney had taken his quarters with the idea that they 
 [ 234 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 would be but temporary; he had continued to occupy 
 them for the better part of a year untroubled by their 
 aridity. He felt that anything that was frankly tempo- 
 rary was endurable and hardly worth bothering about. 
 And as the days went by, he had become so absorbed in 
 the writing which occupied his leisure hours that he was 
 indifferent to his surroundings. 
 
 It never occurred to him that his life was at all 
 cheerless or lonely. There was a group of young Dart- 
 mouth men who had formed a club table near by, where 
 he dined. They were mostly fledgling lawyers, with desks 
 hi important large offices. They wondered why Sidney, 
 whose father had been a Chief Justice of the Supreme 
 Court of New Hampshire, had not chosen the law. Their 
 conversation was of cases and decisions, and Sidney lis- 
 tened to it sometimes. But often when they supposed 
 he was listening he was pursuing a clue that he had just 
 seized to the development of the story that he was writ- 
 ing. They liked Sidney for his simplicity and at the 
 same time they were a little puzzled by it. They won- 
 dered why he did not live in a manner more in keeping 
 with the dignity of the position that his father had 
 held. 
 
 The Chief Justice had left his two sons an income of 
 about two thousand dollars each. William, the older 
 boy, was practicing law in the New Hampshire capital, 
 was married and had two children. He deprecated his 
 brother's choice of a career. Journalism was vague, liter- 
 ature was delusive. Only in rare cases did they bring in 
 good returns. But then William regarded his patrimony 
 as a fund which it was necessary to increase as much and 
 [ 235 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 as rapidly as possible, whereas to Sidney two thousand 
 dollars a year seemed adequate for all possible needs. 
 Marriage was at present out of his reckoning; and a 
 single man who had two thousand dollars a year and did 
 not go in for the work that he most enjoyed doing, with- 
 out considering the question of returns, was a fool. 
 
 Newspaper work Sidney did not enjoy doing, but he 
 had been advised that it would mean a valuable experi- 
 ence for one who wished to be a writer, and so by per- 
 sistent effort he had attached himself to the "Morning 
 Star." On an afternoon in September he entered his 
 room, light-hearted because he had struck off the shackles 
 of his distasteful employment. Henceforth it was to be 
 literature for him; no more of journalism. He was de- 
 termined to be a worker no mere dilettante. There 
 were plots enough, ideas enough, floating in his head, 
 if he could guide them safely out of that vasty deep 
 to port. Excellent resolves he made. He would be no 
 gusty worker, but systematic and methodical a 
 worker like Trollope or rather, for he did not value 
 Trollope's product highly, like Balzac. Every morning 
 he would work upon fiction from nine until one. His 
 afternoons he would devote to going about with his 
 eyes open, gathering impressions, jotting down notes, 
 collecting ideas. Three evenings a week he would devote 
 to writing. 
 
 The incident which had precipitated his withdrawal 
 from the newspaper office was the rejection by a maga- 
 zine of the best story that he had written a story that 
 even Mrs. Brandon had approved. The rejection had 
 disappointed him, but it had stiffened him in his deter- 
 [ 230 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 mination to write stories, and, some time, novels. He 
 decided then that the way to succeed in an art was to 
 practice it. And the newspaper work had been inter- 
 fering seriously with his opportunities. 
 
 His first impulse on entering the room which was 
 henceforth to be the exclusive scene of his labors was 
 not to set immediately about his writing, but to com- 
 municate the important fact of the change in his life to 
 some one who would be interested. The person that he 
 thus chose to favor was not his brother; William's inter- 
 est would hardly be sympathetic. He was sure that he 
 could count on the sympathetic interest of Mrs. Brandon, 
 severe critic though she had been. Already he had a 
 correspondence with her that he greatly prized. She had 
 pleased him immensely by writing to him with her own 
 hand of the birth of her baby, a week after the event; 
 he had spent a whole evening in framing an answer 
 which should combine emotion and restraint in suitable 
 measure. His dread was of slopping over, and yet his 
 letter could not have been sincere if it had not ex- 
 pressed emotion . Never before in his life had his thoughts 
 dwelt so on the episode of motherhood, not even on the 
 occasion when his sister-in-law had achieved it. Possi- 
 bly it was an evidence of increased maturity on his part; 
 but he was aware that information of an addition by 
 his prosaic, unimaginative, efficient sister-in-law to her 
 family could not arouse in him such a sense of a beautiful 
 and poignant happening as that which Dorothy Bran- 
 don's letter had inspired. 
 
 He had written to her of his failure to secure publica- 
 tion for the story that she had liked, and was hoping now 
 [ 237 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 for a note of condolence by every mail. He was rather 
 ashamed of the eagerness with which he watched for 
 the postman's coming and of the disappointment which 
 ensued. Now he had reached the point of wondering if 
 he had presumed too much upon her interest or if he had 
 written of his failure in an unmanly way. The thought 
 that she had perhaps placed such an interpretation on 
 his note, and been disgusted by it, tormented him. If 
 he had a mean side he did not want her to know it 
 but he himself felt that he had written because she had 
 shown such interest in the fortunes of his story, not 
 because, wounded, he must crawl to her for petting. 
 
 Now, if she really believed him guilty of such pusil- 
 lanimous behavior, perhaps he could clear himself by 
 a letter showing that adversity had stiffened his am- 
 bition. It was very important that she should continue 
 to think well of him the most beautiful and charm- 
 ing and intelligent woman that he had ever known. 
 More than that, she had become a vital factor hi his 
 writing; she was his audience and his heroine; from each 
 facet of her character that she turned towards him, a 
 whole new character sprang upon his imagination. She 
 summarized and vivified womankind; she spiritualized 
 and typified her sex. Was it not important for a writer 
 to maintain avenues of communication with such a be- 
 ing? 
 
 So he determined that without waiting any longer 
 to hear from her he would announce to her in his most 
 sparkling manner the step that he had taken and he 
 hoped that she would recognize in it a certain gallantry. 
 During his walk home from the office he had been 
 [ 238 }
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 phrasing this announcement, and then rejecting the 
 phrasing. He foresaw that he should pass an agreeable 
 evening striving to perfect the letter. 
 
 Then he opened the door of Number 9 and found on 
 the table in the hall a letter from Mrs. Brandon. He 
 stood there and read it in the dim light. 
 
 "DEAR MB. HANFORD: 
 
 "It's a keen disappointment; you betray so little 
 feeling that I believe I must really be more disappointed 
 than you. But it's only a question of time before your 
 work is given a hearing. 
 
 "And now I want you to come to us here at North East 
 for a little visit. My husband thought you were looking 
 tired; you have been working too hard. I am sure you 
 need a vacation. Do let us hear that you will come for 
 the two weeks beginning the twentieth of September. 
 We can't offer you any excitement; I'm not able to do 
 much as yet. But good air and good scenery and all 
 the time to yourself that you want we can promise you; 
 and mother joins with me in hoping that you can come. 
 "Sincerely yours, 
 
 "DOROTHY BRANDON." 
 
 The young man read this letter with happy excite- 
 ment. He put it in his pocket and ran up the stairs to 
 his room. He was still smiling to himself and his blue 
 eyes shone bright under their long lashes while he stood 
 at his window and looked down into the little park. She 
 had been disappointed but not in him ! He might have 
 known she was too kind a person to ferret out discredit- 
 [ 239 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 able meanings in one's harmless words. How fine of her 
 to have such faith in him! Oh, he must justify it! 
 
 The twentieth of September was ten days distant. 
 He must work hard in that interval so that he might take 
 to her some manuscript for discussion and criticism. 
 She seemed always to see unerringly what he was aiming 
 at, and to appreciate especially the little touches that 
 he liked best himself. And then reading his "stuff" 
 to her, he always spoke of it as "stuff," he in- 
 variably realized more keenly than at any other time 
 where it was crude and weak; without being a cen- 
 sorious listener, she somehow awakened in him a livelier 
 sensitiveness to imperfection. And besides, he liked 
 her and liked to be with her because she was so nice 
 to look at. In fact, she was the nicest person to look at 
 that he knew. 
 
 Sometimes he wondered how it had happened that 
 she had married Brandon. Not that Brandon was not 
 as worthy of her as any other man that he could think of; 
 but it seemed to Sidney, groping back to his first recol- 
 lections, that when she and Brandon had met on the 
 cattle ship it had been as strangers. He wondered what 
 the story of their romance might be. 
 
 He wrote the neatest little letter in reply to hers that 
 he could frame, and for the time being forgot his pur- 
 pose to emulate the industry of Balzac.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE IMAGE OF HIS FATHER 
 
 ON the twenty-fifth of September, Hetty Mallory 
 arrived at North East Harbor. She had come to 
 pay a brief visit to her friends the Middletons, and she 
 was looking forward eagerly to an introduction to 
 George's baby. Hetty was a woman who sincerely loved 
 babies not merely her own. Rich and poor, clean and 
 dirty, they appealed equally to her as cunning and in- 
 teresting and adorable though that last was a word 
 she seldom permitted herself to use, feeling that it had 
 been appropriated and despoiled of value by silly, gush- 
 ing women. When she went shopping or walking in 
 Boston, she always carried with her several pocket hand- 
 kerchiefs and made a point of stopping to wipe any dirty 
 baby face or nose that she encountered. The slatternly 
 mothers were more often stupefied than enraged by these 
 officious performances; their anger was usually turned 
 to pleasure by Hetty's saying, "What a sweet, cunning 
 baby ! It is n't fair to him ( or her) to let such a cunning 
 thing go dirty!" She was quite unerring in specifying 
 the sex. The nursemaids along the Avenue and in the 
 Public Garden had learned to watch for her from afar. 
 Some of them thought she made it a practice to patrol 
 these resorts of the perambulator pushers. Many a novel- 
 reading young woman lounging on a seat had Hetty 
 chided because the sun was shining in her charge's eyes. 
 I 241 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Liking babies as she did, she liked Dorothy in her 
 thoughts better for having one. She forgave her for 
 not answering her letter of congratulation, for not reply- 
 ing to her eager questions about color of eyes, amount 
 of hair, and potential resemblances. George himself 
 when appealed to on these points had been vague. Hetty, 
 fond of her brother, hoped that the little George looked 
 like him, was eager to discover that he did. So at noon 
 she walked the half-mile from the Middletons' house to 
 Mrs. Vasmer's. In her hand, done up in white tissue 
 paper, she carried a present for the baby a mother- 
 of-pearl teething-ring with three small bells attached. 
 She had provided each of her own babies with a similar 
 serviceable toy. It was by no means the only present 
 that she had bestowed upon young George: a pair of 
 little shoes, a knitted blanket, and a flannel sleeping-bag 
 had already testified to her interest and affection, and 
 it is to be said for Hetty that she cherished no resent- 
 ment because of Dorothy's rather inexcusable neglect 
 to acknowledge these gifts. Hetty was always willing 
 to make allowances for women before and after child- 
 birth, for they were so often queer at such times; she 
 regarded herself as rather uncommonly normal in her 
 manner of undergoing the experience. 
 
 It was a summery day, with a bright sun overhead, 
 and Hetty walked leisurely, carrying a pink parasol 
 tilted over her shoulder. She was a slim, graceful young 
 woman; she had style and distinction of bearing; those 
 who did not like her felt that her manner of strolling 
 denoted supreme self-satisfaction. They also thought 
 her eyes were too round and too brown and the lower 
 [ 242 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 part of her face too solidly made. But to most people 
 her expression was pleasant, and it surely was so now 
 when she ascended the steps of Mrs. Vasmer's house 
 and saw Mrs. Vasmer reading at the end of the piazza 
 in the shelter of the vines. 
 
 Mrs. Vasmer gave her a surprised and cordial wel- 
 come, wished that she would come and make them a 
 visit after she finished with the Middletons, and asked 
 about the little Mallorys. Hetty launched forth eagerly: 
 Phil had learned to swim; Susie, poor child, had suffered 
 wretchedly from middle ear, but fortunately had escaped 
 the necessity for an operation; Freddy could pick out 
 letters now on his blocks. But after all she had not 
 come to talk about her children ; she was simply crazy 
 to see little George. And Dorothy though that she 
 added as an afterthought. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Vasmer. "Dorothy will be so 
 delighted to see you and show you her boy. We're very 
 proud of him; he's a good baby." She got slowly out 
 of her reclining-chair. " I think we shall find Dorothy 
 in the garden. I 'm so glad you came to-day and so can 
 see the garden as well as the baby. I feel as if any day 
 now might be its last; I can't remember when we have 
 gone so late as this at North East without frost. The 
 asters and dahlias are really splendid dukes and 
 princes now, and one frosty night will transform them 
 all into a lot of dismal battered brown friars dirty 
 things that you can't have round. The dahlias especially 
 after a frost they always seem to me like so many 
 Cardinal Wolseys nodding and muttering their melan- 
 choly speech to themselves." 
 
 [ 243 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 This was all too fanciful to interest Hetty; she said, 
 as they proceeded across the lawn past the great copper 
 beech, "Yes, the first hard frost makes a garden a per- 
 fect fright." 
 
 The gate in the tall privet hedge was open and they 
 passed through it noiselessly on the grass walk. Then 
 there opened out before Hetty a truly regal display of 
 color gorgeous cactus dahlias with noble blossoms as 
 splendid as any golden chrysanthemum, peony dahlias 
 with blossoms as soft as any rose, asters in masses blue 
 and pink and white, here and there clumps of late lin- 
 gering phlox and of brilliant helianthus the grass 
 plots smooth as a carpet, the fountain in the center 
 playing lightly over the marble shoulders of a naked 
 boy, posed with arms outstretched as if for a dive into 
 the pool. In the gay and quiet peacefulness of the in- 
 closure the sound of a man's voice reading blended with 
 the tinkling of the spray. The sound proceeded from a 
 nook in the privet hedge beyond a plum tree; Hetty saw 
 a white-trousered leg projecting; then Mrs. Vasmer 
 called, "See who's here, Dorothy." 
 
 The white-trousered leg dropped, the reading ceased 
 abruptly, and from the nook emerged Dorothy, followed 
 in a moment by Sidney Hanford. Hetty gave the young 
 man a keen glance; she knew quite as well as if she had 
 seen it that he was buttoning a manuscript inside his 
 coat. Always she was prejudiced against him; she dis- 
 liked all hangers-on of married Women, and truthfully 
 believed that she would immediately discourage any man 
 who showed a tendency to attach himself to her. Now 
 to Hetty's mind there was a subtle indecency in Hanford's 
 [ 244 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 being here at this time, just as there had been in his 
 frequently accompanying Dorothy to public places at a 
 time when her appearance proclaimed her expectant 
 condition. Hetty resented his presence; unconsciously 
 the happy, eager expression that could make her face 
 attractive vanished, and the look of cool and supercil- 
 ious composure that Dorothy detested occupied it like 
 a fortress. 
 
 She bowed in reply to Dorothy's introduction of Han- 
 ford; she did not offer her hand. 
 
 "I arrived just this morning," she said. "Of course 
 I wanted to see the baby at once." 
 
 "Oh, the baby!" exclaimed Dorothy. "He's all that 
 anybody wants to see now. Nobody comes to see me. 
 That's why I got Mr. Hanford down here; I knew that 
 he would really be more interested in me than in the 
 baby." 
 
 Hanford attempted to protest his enthusiasm for the 
 baby, but even this did not propitiate Hetty. 
 
 "You're looking very well yourself," she said stiffly to 
 Dorothy. 
 
 And Dorothy interpreted this to mean, "Better than 
 you have any right to look, if you were doing your duty 
 by your infant." 
 
 She chose to exhibit herself as an advanced type of 
 maternal indifference. 
 
 "The nurse is probably feeding him now, so you've 
 come at a good time. I don't have much to do with him 
 myself. Babies at his age are cunning enough, but after 
 all they have n't much variety; they don't satisfy for 
 very long one's social needs you '11 excuse us, won't 
 [ 245 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 you, Mr. Hanford, while we go in and inspect little 
 George." 
 
 "Dorothy!" exclaimed Mrs. Vasmer. "What a pose! 
 You know, Hetty, she really thinks there never was such 
 a baby." 
 
 "Of course," said Hetty; and then had the unpleasant 
 feeling that Dorothy's laugh was directed both at Mrs. 
 Vasmer and at herself, as if mocking their desire to seem 
 credulous. 
 
 But in the presence of the infant Hetty quite recov- 
 ered her good temper, quite forgot Dorothy's unnatural 
 behavior. The baby had just finished his bottle and was 
 in his best post-prandial mood; his eyes twinkled at the 
 visitor precociously; he lay on his back and flopped his 
 arms about and drooled with obviously sociable intent. 
 Hetty exclaimed over him rapturously, turning now 
 to Mrs. Vasmer, now to Dorothy. 
 
 "The living image of his father! Is n't he, Mrs. Vas- 
 mer? George's eyes and mouth and nose yes, and his 
 ears. It's the cunningest little likeness. I always think 
 it nice when the first baby looks like his father and is 
 named for him. Oh, you darling!" 
 
 She bethought herself of the teething-ring; she took 
 it out of its wrapping and shook it in front of the baby's 
 eyes. He watched it gravely for a moment and then had 
 a paroxysm of silent laughter. "Oh, you darling!" said 
 Hetty again, and pressed the ring into the tiny hand, 
 which held it for an instant and then dropped it. 
 
 "I must n't keep him any longer from his sleep," said 
 Hetty regretfully. "Those dear little blue eyes!" Thus 
 she took a reluctant farewell; Dorothy had to concede 
 [ 246 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 AS a point in her favor that she did not kiss the baby and 
 go perfectly maudlin over him. A sense of justice urged 
 her to an act of graciousness. 
 
 "Thank Aunt Hetty for the rattle, baby," she said. 
 "And also for the pretty shoes and the nice blanket and 
 the warm sleeping-bag that your mother had n't the 
 decency to acknowledge." 
 
 "Oh, that's all right, Dorothy. I'm glad if they're 
 useful. He 's so like George ! To look at me as he 
 did! He's the most precocious baby!" 
 
 " I hope he won't be precocious," Dorothy said. " Pre- 
 cocious infants develop into the most trying children." 
 
 Mrs. Vasmer asked Hetty if she would not stay to 
 luncheon. No; Hetty was sorry, but she had to hurry 
 back to the Middletons. Besides, Dorothy's last re- 
 mark had struck her as so profoundly unappreciative 
 of the baby that she thought she had better go before 
 she revealed her feelings, as if they had not rushed 
 already to her face and revealed themselves, an army 
 in arms. 
 
 She took her farewell and moved down the walk to 
 the gate, slender and graceful, and shielding behind the 
 pink parasol the small fortress that she bore upon her 
 shoulders and that was still bristling with the weapons 
 of offense which she imagined she had concealed. 
 
 Dorothy returned to the author whose reading had been 
 interrupted. She was fuming; Hetty's frank rejoicing, 
 in which there was to be detected an element of congrat- 
 ulation that the baby was "the image" of George, had 
 been the last annoying episode of an irritating encounter. 
 It was all right that the baby should look like his father, 
 [ 247 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 but it would have been all right, too, if he had happened 
 to look like his mother; there would have been no need 
 for any one to commiserate him. 
 
 "That woman always contrives to get on my nerves," 
 Dorothy said bluntly to Hanford. "She makes me want 
 to live up to the worst that I see she's thinking of me. 
 Do people ever affect you in that way? " 
 
 Hanford raised his long-lashed eyelids. "I don't think 
 of any one. Of course some people are exasperating. 
 I did n't suppose you ever let yourself be annoyed by 
 them." 
 
 She realized that this was the first confidence she had 
 made to him, the first disclosure that she had made of 
 herself, and she wished she might recall it. "If there 
 are people that I don't mind having think me worse 
 than I am, there are others that I want to have think 
 me nicer than I am," she said instantly. "And that's 
 why I wish now I had n't made that horrid remark." 
 
 He flushed as he did always when he was both pleased 
 and embarrassed, and she thought how really pretty 
 now his long lashes were against his cheeks. 
 
 "I'm glad if you care at all about my approval," he 
 said shyly. "As to that, why, there's one thing I'm 
 sure of, and that is that you're just as nice as I think 
 you." 
 
 Stooping she plucked a large purple aster and put it 
 in his button-hole. The young man was aware of an 
 odd, pleasant sensation while her nimble slender fingers 
 played about the breast of his coat, pulling and patting 
 the flower into place. It was almost as if they were 
 caressing him, though he knew of course they were n't. 
 [ 248 1
 
 "You're better at imagining characters than at ob- 
 serving them," she remarked. "Now let's go on with 
 the story." 
 
 Reading his story after the interruption Hanford felt 
 that he was not so very good at imagining characters. 
 His people seemed more than ordinarily wooden and un- 
 real. He wondered if she ever again would decorate him 
 with a flower; over and over he revived the sensation of 
 that moment when her nimble slender fingers felt as if 
 they might be caressing him a little though of course 
 they were n't.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 HETTY FREES HER MIND 
 
 UPON her arrival at the North Station by the night 
 train from Mount Desert, Hetty at once entered 
 a telephone booth and called up her house at Cohasset. 
 She learned that the children were well; she spoke with 
 each of them in turn, thrilled at again hearing their 
 voices, as were they by the sound of hers. Never before 
 had she been so long away from them. She said that she 
 would come home after luncheon, as she had shopping 
 to do that would occupy her all the morning, urged them 
 to be good children, roused their excitement by suggest- 
 ing that she might have some presents for them, and rang 
 off reluctantly but thriftily when the time allotted for 
 pay-station conversation had expired. 
 
 Then she telephoned to George and caught him just 
 as he was on the point of leaving the house. She asked 
 him to lunch with her at the Touraine and said that she 
 would expatiate upon the charms of his infant. 
 
 Though she was a shopper of an investigating and 
 examining habit, Hetty had several times to rouse her- 
 self from preoccupation during her morning's tasks. She 
 was not sure just what or how much she ought to say 
 to George. 
 
 As was usually the case with Hetty after undergoing 
 such a process of self-examination, she ended by express- 
 ing all that was in her mind. 
 
 " George," she said, when they were seated at a table 
 [ 250 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 in a corner of the dining-room, "your baby is the cun- 
 ningest I have ever seen. I believe that if Dorothy's 
 experience with babies were greater, she would realize 
 more fully what a prize he is." 
 
 "Dorothy appreciates him, judging from the tone of 
 her letters," said George. 
 
 "She does n't get hah* the fun out of him she might. 
 It 's a pity, I think, that Dorothy can't be content just 
 now to let all her interests center about her child." 
 
 "I'm sure you're mistaken in thinking they don't." 
 
 " If I 'm mistaken, then I share a mistake that is pretty 
 general at North East Harbor. People talk about it 
 quite freely. This young Hanford who is making a visit 
 there why, she ought n't to want to have visitors at 
 this time, she ought n't to want to have the companion- 
 ship of a man not her husband!" 
 
 "Don't be absurd, Hetty," said George impatiently. 
 "Nothing is more innocent." 
 
 "I don't mean to imply anything to the contrary. 
 It's just that her wanting to have him round at this 
 time is n't normal or natural; it's only that which excites 
 comment. The Middletons took me on a picnic to one of 
 the islands; they'd invited a number of people, among 
 them Dorothy and her guest. Dorothy and the guest 
 came; they sat together in the boat sailing over, they 
 kept pretty much to themselves on the island, and they 
 were together in the boat coming home. Every one 
 commented on it." 
 
 "Then every one is to be despised. Young Hanford is 
 just a boy naive, simple, with some literary taste and 
 ambition which I'm not qualified to pronounce upon. 
 [ 251 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Dorothy is interested in things he has written and has 
 helped him with her criticism." 
 
 "But, George, it isn't that people are talking any 
 scandal about her and the young man. It 's simply that 
 to behave as she does seems to indicate a carelessness that 
 does n't quite befit motherhood. What people wonder 
 at is that she'd rather play about in these ways than 
 with her baby. She does n't want to be bothered at all 
 with the care of the baby; and unless you interfere the 
 child will be brought up entirely by nurses, will have only 
 a slight knowledge of his mother and a perfunctory re- 
 gard for her, and will very speedily grow away from her 
 influence and yours." 
 
 "I think you are giving yourself quite unnecessary 
 concern about the matter, Hetty." 
 
 "I'm sorry if I've offended you by speaking. I realize 
 that Dorothy does n't like me; I seem to antagonize her. 
 You may be sure, George, that I've been very careful 
 not to indicate to her any disapproval of her course." 
 
 "Naturally. After all, Hetty, there is more than one 
 way of bringing up a child. While Dorothy is at her 
 mother's, it is best for her to get as much rest and re- 
 creation as possible and build up her strength; the baby 
 does not suffer from any neglect. When she comes back 
 to Boston, you will find that she will be just as devoted 
 a mother as you are yourself." 
 
 "I don't pretend to any superior virtue," declared 
 Hetty, "only to superior experience. And if I've said 
 more than I should, please try to forgive me, George." 
 
 She was truly contrite; she felt that her self-imposed 
 mission had been injudicious and had resulted in failure. 
 [ 252 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 What she had hoped to accomplish she did not exactly 
 know, but she had thought that if George's eyes were 
 opened he might perform some beneficial operation which 
 she vaguely termed to herself "putting his foot down." 
 It was her opinion that Dorothy needed to be controlled 
 with a firm hand; she had hoped to show George the 
 necessity for exercising it. 
 
 But of course George loved and admired the girl and 
 could n't be made to see the necessity. Hetty refrained 
 from repeating what Fanny Middleton had told her; 
 Dorothy had said to Fanny that she liked to see the 
 baby when he was being given his bath, but that she 
 never wanted or intended to bathe him herself, and 
 both Fanny and Hetty agreed in regarding such a state- 
 ment as symptomatic; a woman who did n't want to 
 bathe her baby with her own hands ! Evidently Dorothy 
 meant to be an ultra-modern type of mother. And that, 
 in Hetty's opinion, was about the most pernicious use 
 a woman could make of herself. 
 
 Sitting at the table, Hetty felt sorry for George. It 
 would be cruel if he was to find that he was mismated 
 if, after the way in which he had pulled himself to- 
 gether and was making himself count in the community, 
 he should fail to receive true support from his wife. To see 
 things being done just wrong, by a person just selfish 
 and obstinate enough to persevere in doing them wrong 
 because those methods best suited her pleasure and con- 
 venience, must be hard for a man who loved his child 
 and wished to maintain his love for his wife. Hetty 
 thought that George had lost much of his natural 
 gayety, and she did not believe it was due entirely to the 
 [ 253 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 seriousness of his professional responsibilities. Doubt- 
 less he felt in his heart as she did about Dorothy's neglect 
 of her maternal privileges, even though bound by a 
 sense of loyalty to deny it. And Hetty, smitten by this 
 thought, wished that by her own censorious speech she 
 had not added to his burden. 
 
 Though not given to demonstrativeness and disap- 
 proving highly of it in public places, Hetty could not 
 help conveying to George a special sign of affection 
 when they were parting. George was regretting that he 
 could not accompany her to the station and put her on 
 the train; his office hour called him. Hetty, about to 
 enter a cab, turned suddenly and taking his arm pressed 
 it and clung to it. 
 
 "Dear old brother," she said; "I know I'm awfully 
 narrow-minded; do try to forgive me." She released him 
 and stepped into the cab. " If you ever have a free night 
 or a Sunday, do come to Cohasset." 
 
 George waved his hand cheerfully, but the moment 
 that Hetty was gone cheerfulness vanished from his 
 face. To be aware of an unworthiness in his wife was 
 to be saddened; to learn that others were aware of it 
 and were commenting on it was to be deprived even of 
 the dignity of sadness. He walked the short distance to 
 the corner slowly, with downcast eyes. At the corner, 
 waiting for an opportunity to cross to the Common, he 
 saw a cab, driven at more than ordinary speed, swing 
 round from Tremont into Boylston Street. He recognized 
 Graham Rappallo sitting inside, gazing straight ahead, 
 and looking, George thought, even in that preoccupied 
 instant, as if he did not see anything.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 ROSAMOND 
 
 IN the evening of that day George heard from Graham 
 Rappallo, over the telephone, that Rosamond had a 
 son. There was little joyfulness hi the father's announce- 
 ment. The baby, premature by two months, weighed 
 only two and a quarter pounds; its spark of life flickered 
 feebly; Rosamond's condition was critical. As the days 
 went by there came no reassuring message. The baby 
 still lived, yet from moment to moment its grasp on life 
 seemed precarious. In Rosamond's case no improvement 
 was manifest. Finally Dr. Armazet was called into con- 
 sultation. From the house of the patient Dr. Armazet 
 telephoned to George, summoning him to come at once 
 with surgical supplies. What the surgeon said was 
 ominous; George made his preparations with rapid fin- 
 gers and a heavy heart. 
 
 It was mid-afternoon of the blowy October day when 
 he alighted from the train at the Dover Station. Graham 
 himself was waiting for him, holding in a restless big bay 
 that scorned the harness and danced for a run across 
 country. Sleepless nights and torturing fears had made 
 their mark on Graham's face; a dull tone overlaid its 
 healthy dark color, and lines had been harrowed about 
 the mouth and eyes. But he smiled and reached down 
 to George a steady hand. 
 
 George helped the station-master to stow the small 
 trunk of supplies behind the seat and then mounted 
 [ 255 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 beside Graham. The horse was off at a leap. To George's 
 question about Rosamond, Graham replied, "She's 
 facing it bravely. She would. Dr. Armazet has en- 
 couraged her. He is hopeful, I think. Dr. Parsons agrees 
 that an operation is necessary. The question is whether 
 she has vitality enough to stand it. And if the baby 
 should die " 
 
 For an instant in the eyes turned towards him George 
 read anguish. Then he had only the profile view of 
 Graham's face, which in its immobility seemed to express 
 apathy under torture. 
 
 It was torture that George shared. While he sat 
 in the tram the thought of Rosamond so stricken had 
 brought her before him with a poignant nearness, a 
 poignant tenderness; his dear Rosamond of old; he saw 
 her as she had looked entering the church to be mar- 
 ried, as she had looked when her startled soft eyes 
 fell on him; he could not identify that bright and gay 
 creature with one whose destiny was tragedy and doom. 
 Yet already destiny was brooding over her while she 
 lay between life and death, destiny inert and uncom- 
 passionate. If, as Graham said, the baby should die ! 
 
 The dried grasses of the uplands ran in long columns 
 under the wind, darted from shadow into sunlight. A 
 knoll of oaks stood out in mellow bronze. Maples and 
 sumach and birches flamed and flashed and fluttered 
 pennons. Nature seemed high-spirited and playful, the 
 breeze went tilting impudently by, and sang in the trees. 
 But a cornfield, full of withered, uncut stalks, was out of 
 key and gave forth, while the horse trotted by, a faint 
 and sombre melody. 
 
 [ 256 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Ten minutes later George was in Rosamond's room. 
 She had asked to see him alone. The sight of her brought 
 his emotion to the surface; he set his lips to keep them 
 from quivering, he clasped her hand in silence. The 
 pressure of it was warm and strong; the pallor and thin- 
 ness of her face served to bring out more strikingly for 
 him the soft lustre of her eyes. 
 
 "I'm glad you 're here to help me, George." 
 
 "Thank you, Rosamond. You can have complete 
 faith in Dr. Armazet. Before you realize it, you'll be 
 out of ether " 
 
 "Yes, I know." She still clung to his hand. "I don't 
 want to die; I shall make a fight. My little son needs 
 me. I have n't been of much use to him bringing him 
 into the world so unprepared I have seen him only 
 twice poor little mite ! They don't dare show him to 
 me; it is dangerous to disturb him. I must n't ask to see 
 him now. They feed him with a medicine dropper. I 
 shall never know what it might be to have him at my 
 breast. And I had looked forward to that. Oh, I want to 
 be a good mother to him I want to make up to him for 
 this bad start; I feel that I can. George, you and Dr. 
 Armazet must make me live." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I promise it," George cried. 
 
 She smiled and let go his hand. He was leaving the 
 room when she called him back. She motioned to him 
 to bend over her, and then in a low voice she said, 
 
 "If it goes wrong, George, you'll tell Graham why I 
 did n't ask to see my baby?" 
 
 "Yes, Rosamond. But it won't go wrong." 
 
 He declared it passionately. 
 [ 257 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 That night Dr. Armazet and George slept but little; 
 one or the other was constantly in attendance at Rosa- 
 mond's bedside, keeping her under morphia, noting her 
 pulse, and her temperature, trying to soothe and en- 
 courage her in the intervals of consciousness and 
 agony. Towards morning her pulse became suddenly 
 weaker, her temperature mounted, she muttered deli- 
 riously, there were alarming symptoms of sinking. To- 
 gether George and Dr. Armazet fought off the creeping 
 enemy. Rosamond returned to consciousness and agony. 
 Her lips moved in silence. George bent over and asked 
 her what she would say. 
 
 "This torture," she whispered. "Oh, I mustn't 
 cry, I must n't scream; it might wake my little baby." 
 
 "No, you need n't be afraid of that," George said. 
 
 She looked at him with frightened eyes. " Is my baby 
 dead?" 
 
 "No, no, no!" George cried, putting his hand on her 
 forehead. "He's all right." 
 
 "You would say that to me anyway." 
 
 "But it's true! Rosamond, dear; the baby's doing 
 finely." 
 
 He saw that he had not dispelled her doubt, her dread; 
 the wild, frightened look remained in her eyes. Soon she 
 was again hi delirium. Morphia quieted her, and she 
 slept until the light streamed in between the slats of the 
 blinds. Then she awoke, to the same terror as before. 
 Dr. Armazet added his assurances to those of George, 
 but she only said, "You would n't tell me the truth." 
 
 "We'll get your husband; you'll believe your hus- 
 band," Dr. Armazet replied. 
 
 [ 258 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Graham entered, eagerness and hope and love smiling 
 on his face and shining in his eyes. He fell upon his knees 
 beside the bed; he kissed her gently, tenderly, but she 
 did not respond to his kisses. 
 
 "Graham," she said, in a low voice that reached 
 George standing by the door, "you are all trying to keep 
 it from me." 
 
 "What, dearest?" 
 
 "About the baby. Is the baby dead? " 
 
 "No, no! Why, a moment ago he was crying, a great 
 lusty cry, the best he's given yet. Wait; I'll open the 
 door and if he's still at it you may hear him." 
 
 Then from a room across the hall sounded a tiny wail; 
 it came to the mother's ears. The terror passed from 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Will he hurt himself crying, Graham?" 
 
 " Not a bit ; he 's hungry. There; he 's getting his break- 
 fast now; he's stopped." 
 
 Contentment settled upon her face; she closed her 
 eyes and fell asleep. Graham tiptoed from the room, 
 Dr. Armazet behind him. 
 
 "I think the worst is over," the surgeon said. "We 
 can't be sure, but everything seems hopeful." 
 
 George sat quietly watching Rosamond's peaceful 
 face. The time when he had tried to take her from her 
 husband seemed remote. Purified of illicit passion he 
 looked at Rosamond now with tenderness and rever- 
 ence. Courage, devotion, self-sacrifice, fortitude in 
 anguish was she not a mother fora child! Though he 
 strove to bar the entrance, a devastating comparison 
 invaded his mind.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 DOROTHY WISHES HER MOTHER TO BE HAPPY 
 
 rthe middle of October, George brought Dorothy 
 and the baby and the nurse home from North East 
 Harbor. Mrs. Vasmer remained to close up the house at 
 her leisure. In the stateroom on the night train the baby 
 cried for two hours; George in his berth outside slept un- 
 disturbed, but the nurse was jaded and Dorothy was 
 cross the next morning. The baby screamed at being 
 dressed, at having his bonnet put on, at being wrapped 
 in his shawl. "Goodness, he's the horrid child!" Doro- 
 thy exclaimed. "The next time he goes traveling it 
 won't be with me!" 
 
 George had examined him with careful eyes. The 
 child was a sound and active baby, but irritable; his 
 fretfulness aroused George's sympathy and arrayed his 
 feelings against Dorothy when she was irritable. He 
 could not give expression to them, but while Dorothy 
 was exclaiming angrily he thought, "Poor little fellow, 
 you would n't be a horrid child if your mother were 
 doing her part by you." An increase of tenderness 
 towards his offspring was accompanied by a hardening 
 of feeling towards his wife. 
 
 George had done his best to get the house in readiness 
 
 for his wife's return; the rugs had been cleaned, the 
 
 floors had been swept, pictures and furniture had been 
 
 unswathed, dusted, and placed in position, a room on 
 
 [ 260 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 the third floor had been fitted up as a nursery. And 
 Dorothy pleased George by looking round and saying, 
 "Things look quite well, don't they, George? Did you 
 do all this? I think you 're wonderful ! " But after break- 
 fast the baby cried again and trunks and bags had to be 
 unpacked, and Dorothy exclaimed to her husband, "Oh, 
 what a nasty little house! How I hate to come home!" 
 
 He looked so crestfallen that she added relentingly, 
 "It was well enough when there were only two of us. 
 But with the baby and the baby's nurse there 's no 
 place to put things, and he cries so, and it gets on my 
 nerves." 
 
 He patted her shoulder and said, "Well, dear, we'll 
 find places for everything pretty soon and the baby 
 won't always be crying, and you won't always be having 
 nerves." 
 
 "I wish you would n't call it that," she replied. 
 "You're very unsympathetic, George." 
 
 He protested the injustice of the charge; inwardly he 
 sighed for the peaceful precincts of the club and for his 
 vanished freedom. But at once he was ashamed of the 
 longing; after all it was not yet three months since the 
 baby had been born and he should willingly be tolerant 
 of his wife's fretfulness. 
 
 Nevertheless he welcomed the telephone call that 
 summoned him to a patient's bedside. And for a few 
 days his happiest hours were not those that he passed at 
 home. There was trouble with servants, new ones had 
 to be hired, the baby's diet had to be altered, the baby 
 cried and Dorothy complained. And all the time George 
 nursed a secret bitterness; it might have been so differ- 
 [ 261 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ent had his wife been the right kind of mother; the kind 
 of mother that a man may expect the woman he marries 
 to be. 
 
 But at last the domestic annoyances were smoothed 
 out, the baby began to thrive on the new diet pre- 
 scribed, and Dorothy's cheerfulness returned. She was 
 anxiously waiting to regain her formerly slim figure in 
 order to buy herself some new clothes. She proposed to 
 discard her mourning garments and have a gay winter; 
 she felt that after such long abstinence from social pleas- 
 ures she deserved it. And although she did not mention 
 it to George, she had an idea that by a brilliant reentry 
 into society, and with the assistance of many new and 
 handsome gowns, she could recover the dominion over 
 him that she was uneasily aware at times of having lost. 
 She had led a grubby kind of life too long; it had cost her 
 the prestige to which she was entitled. 
 
 If she had confided her thought and her hope to 
 George, he might have been touched. But he did not 
 imagine that she cared particularly any longer for such 
 homage as he had rendered hi the past. She had begun 
 to hold him off, to assume a new formality; it was be- 
 cause his manner towards her had wounded her. His 
 gentleness and forbearance were too studied; she would 
 have liked better to be scolded and then to be caught 
 into his arms. But perhaps when he saw her in her new 
 clothes, at balls and dinners, courted again by other 
 men, she would take on a new value in his eyes. And 
 then she would be very careful to see that he never again 
 should hold her lightly, as he seemed to do now. 
 
 It was necessary for her to overcome her mother's 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 scruples and inclinations. Mrs. Vasmer wished to 
 remain in mourning another year. 
 
 "But, mother," Dorothy said, "how can I go out if 
 you stay in deep mourning? And besides I was hoping 
 that you'd do some entertaining for us." 
 
 "It seems to me, Dorothy, I should be lacking in 
 respect " 
 
 "Now, mother, you know father would n't want you 
 and me to go on shutting ourselves off from the world. 
 People can't always carry their sorrows with them, and 
 so long as we think of father and try to do as he would 
 have us do, why should n't we get what pleasure we can 
 out of life?" 
 
 " I don't feel that I would find much enjoyment now 
 in entertaining," said Mrs. Vasmer. "When your father 
 was here to help me, it was different." 
 
 "George and I would help you and take as much 
 responsibility as possible off your hands. You need n't 
 give any big entertainments just dinners and theatre 
 parties and things of that kind." 
 
 Mrs. Vasmer made one more feeble remonstrance. "I 
 don't feel as if I should have the heart ever to wear 
 colors again." 
 
 "It's because you've worn black so long that you feel 
 so. Black is n't good for people's nerves or spirits. I 
 know I need to escape from it and so do you, mother. 
 Come with me to-morrow, and we'll go shopping." 
 
 A long habit of yielding in matters on which Dorothy 
 
 had set her heart had deprived Mrs. Vasmer of the 
 
 power of resistance. Accompanying her daughter to the 
 
 shops, she stood sponsor for Dorothy's numerous ex- 
 
 [ 263 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 travagant purchases and committed several on her own 
 behalf, with a sense that each one constituted a sacri- 
 lege. 
 
 "I shall never have the strength of mind to change 
 from black to these," Mrs. Vasmer said; and Dorothy 
 replied : 
 
 "Oh, yes, you will. In fact, we must set a day when 
 we shall appear together, out of mourning. How about 
 five weeks from to-day?" 
 
 Mrs. Vasmer thought that was too soon, but Dorothy 
 pointed out that once you had made up your mind to do 
 a thing, it was wise to do it with as little delay as possible. 
 And on the day that she had named Dorothy in her new 
 and becoming brown suit and hat with blue feather 
 walked to her mother's house and there, after much en- 
 treaty and argument, induced Mrs. Vasmer to discard 
 her widow's weeds and put on her new gray suit and 
 gray hat. Then she summoned her mother's victoria 
 and compelled her to drive about the Back Bay and 
 make calls. 
 
 "Now that the ice has been broken, it won't be hard 
 for you," Dorothy said. "And, of course, now you can't 
 return to black which is a comfort. You look twice 
 as well and three times as young, now that you 're out of 
 mourning." 
 
 She kissed her mother as if in confirmation of the 
 compliment. 
 
 Mrs. Vasmer was herself not insensible to an improve- 
 ment of spirits. Her first consciousness of daring and 
 guilt having passed, she acknowledged to herself an 
 interest and pleasure in her appearance. The black in 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 which she had been draped and shrouded and immured 
 had subdued and imprisoned her spirits; now, free once 
 more, they shyly fluttered their wings. After Dorothy 
 had gone, she stood before the pier-glass hi her room, 
 turning about and admiring the flow and fall of her 
 dress, the poise of her hat; it was the first time since her 
 husband's death that she had done this with a sense of 
 pleasure. Although she had unsuccessfully fought a 
 tendency to stoutness, her face retained still a youth- 
 ful color if not a youthful freshness. Yes, it would be 
 pleasant to live in the world again and perhaps people 
 would not always remember that she was a grand- 
 mother. 
 
 She was a simple-minded woman and old-fashioned in 
 her piety; she knelt beside her bed and besought her 
 husband's spirit to believe that he was not forgotten. 
 And then she prayed for grace and resignation with 
 which to bear the fading of her bloom, for strength of 
 mind to raise her above follies and frivolities unbecom- 
 ing to her age, and for unselfishness and cheerfulness so 
 that she might not be a killjoy to a younger generation. 
 
 Meanwhile Dorothy had walked home, in her brown 
 suit and hat with a blue feather, very well pleased with 
 her mother for exhibiting such docility. " She '11 be much 
 happier," Dorothy assured herself, "much happier in 
 every way." And she felt entitled to considerable credit 
 for having brought her mother to this happier outlook 
 upon life. 
 
 She had been at home but a few minutes when Sidney 
 Hanford called, and she went down rather excited and 
 curious to see what impression she would make on him 
 [ 265 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 in her new clothes. It was very gratifying; she was 
 aware of the instant pleasure on his face. 
 
 "Oh," he said, "I hope you'll never wear black 
 again." 
 
 "One does n't do it from preference," she answered. 
 
 "Yes, and so all the more reason for my hope! It 
 always hurt me to see you in black. I remembered how 
 you looked the first time I saw you on the steamer, and 
 I felt that you ought always to look bright and gay, as 
 you did then; there ought never to be anything about 
 you to suggest sorrow or unhappiness." 
 
 "But when we can't escape sorrow and unhappi- 
 ness " 
 
 "That's just it; I want you to escape them; I can't 
 bear to think that you don't, and wearing black is a pro- 
 clamation of sorrow. But now I can imagine you as 
 never anything but happy." 
 
 " Then what you imagine about me may be more im- 
 portant to you than what I really am?" 
 
 He hesitated a moment. "I can only answer that by 
 saying that you really must be all that I imagine 
 you." 
 
 She could not be unaware of the deepened feeling in 
 his voice, so suddenly, even involuntarily, expressed; she 
 was not unaware of a responsive kindling of emotion 
 beneath the surface; she feared that she might betray it, 
 she hoped that he would divine it. 
 
 In the moment of silence that followed she was sure 
 
 that he had read her thoughts, vibrated to her emotion. 
 
 She was especially sure of it because of late in the work 
 
 that he had been reading to her passages had revealed an 
 
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 almost uncanny understanding of feminine states of 
 mind; sometimes it occurred to her that she was seeing 
 herself interpreted. The talk between them became con- 
 strained; Hanford soon took his leave. After he had gone 
 Dorothy felt agitated and unhappy. She could not 
 account for her feelings to herself; she thought that he 
 with his insight could elucidate them to her. But of 
 course he would never have the opportunity. 
 
 When George came in, he did not seem to notice his 
 wife's dress; he made no comment on it. He kissed her 
 as he passed on his way to the window-seat, where he 
 stretched himself full length. She put down the book on 
 which she had been trying to fix her attention. 
 
 "Tired, George?" 
 
 "Yes, rather." 
 
 "I thought you must be not to say anything about 
 the way I look ! " 
 
 He turned his head. "Oh, yes. A new dress; it 's very 
 pretty very becoming. So you're coming out of 
 mourning?" 
 
 It was characteristic of the relations which had existed 
 between them since her return to Boston that he should 
 have been ignorant of her intention. 
 
 "Yes. I hope you're glad. It's strange you didn't 
 notice." 
 
 "I must have been too preoccupied. To tell the truth, 
 in the mood I 'm in, your black would be more appropri- 
 ate." 
 
 "What has happened?" 
 
 "Oh, an operation failed. Nobody's fault but it 
 was useless. A boy of fifteen only child; a tumor of 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 the brain suddenly developed. We knew it was almost 
 hopeless. I had to see the mother afterwards." 
 
 " Poor woman ! " said Dorothy. 
 
 "A tragedy like that haunts me now more than it used 
 to. I can't help thinking always, 'What if it happened 
 to us!' Seeing so much pain and grief and suffering I 
 sometimes wonder if any one escapes." 
 
 "Don't have such thoughts; don't put them into my 
 head! Of course our little boy is going to be all right, 
 always." 
 
 "Yes, of course he is. There's no reason to fear that it 
 will be otherwise." 
 
 But all that evening George remained under a cloud 
 of depression. He admitted that he could not put from 
 him thoughts of the grief-crazed mother, the stricken 
 father who tried vainly to support and comfort her. At 
 dinner he sat silent; afterwards he lay again on the 
 window-seat and rested with closed eyes until at last he 
 roused himself and descended to his study. 
 
 Dorothy had tried to interest him in her plans for a 
 gay winter, but the attention that he gave her was so 
 obviously perfunctory that she soon ceased, and deter- 
 mined rather sullenly to be just as silent as he was. And 
 when he left her and went downstairs she felt angry. 
 Men who were good husbands did not bring home their 
 professional troubles and worries and sorrows and con- 
 vert an atmosphere of cheerfulness into one of gloom. 
 Of course doctors saw a lot of suffering, but all the more 
 reason for their not dwelling on it afterwards. And, as a 
 matter of fact, all the good doctors and surgeons that 
 she knew were an unusually jolly set of men. Even if 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 George could n't get away from his share in a tragic ex- 
 perience, there was absolutely no excuse for his scaring 
 her and harrowing her up with premonitions and pre- 
 sentiments about the baby. He simply could n't miss 
 a chance to try to make her feel that she had not been 
 a good mother to her child. 
 
 She felt piqued because he had been so indifferent to 
 the epoch-making change in her dress, so casual in his 
 comment on her appearance, so unresponsive to her 
 statement of plans and expectations for the winter. His 
 attitude simply meant that she and her life had become 
 of secondary importance to him. Of less importance, 
 indeed, than to Sidney Hanford, who had been actually 
 thrilled at seeing her again in colors, who had become 
 radiant in the thought of her once more gay and happy 
 as a young girl is happy.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 PHASES OF CONTENTMENT 
 
 SLOWLY Rosamond recovered her strength; slowly 
 the tiny infant gained in weight and vigor. Al- 
 though the doctor would not express any sanguine hope 
 and said that not until the first of the year could the 
 baby's health be regarded as assured, with each week 
 that passed his manner took on confidence and gave en- 
 couragement. And when at last Rosamond herself was 
 able to share the nurse's duties, to feed and bathe and 
 dress the little thing, she felt that death could not now 
 rob her of her child, such watchful care she would give 
 him, such devotion and so scrupulously would she 
 abstain from indulgence in forbidden maternal pleas- 
 ures. Although with her heart and soul and lips and 
 fingers she longed to caress the soft little body, she never 
 cuddled the child in her arms, she never kissed him, she 
 never laughed over him or talked to him or played with 
 him; quietly, silently, in a manner as business-like as it 
 was gentle, she did for him what was required and then 
 left him to himself. The nurse commented admiringly 
 on her self-control. "Oh," said Rosamond, "but don't 
 I comfort myself every day with thinking how some 
 tune I shall hug him and hug him in my arms!" 
 
 To Graham's campaign for election to the legislature 
 she did not give close interest; she was too preoccupied 
 with the baby; all her power of concentration had been 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 narrowed down to him. Sometimes Graham would talk 
 to her about the issues depending on the election or 
 about the character of the campaign being waged by his 
 opponent; and always, after a little while, Rosamond 
 would have to confess that she had not been listening 
 and that there seemed to be something the matter with 
 her brain because she could never be interested in things 
 as formerly. Graham assured her that there was nothing 
 the matter with it and that after the long period of ner- 
 vous strain and anxiety was over she would find herself 
 once more alert to outside affairs. He himself carried 
 anxiety less lightly than his wife. His heart was not 
 in electioneering; after two speeches he refused to 
 continue on the stump; he left his political fate to 
 his friends and to public sentiment. Dread lest the 
 baby should die and terror of what might then befall 
 Rosamond oppressed him at all times. He tried to ar- 
 range his life so that he should be always within tele- 
 phone call and when he was at his office or away 
 from home he never heard the telephone bell ring with- 
 out a sinking at the heart, a weakening of the knees. 
 The doctor had told him that the baby might seem per- 
 fectly well one minute and collapse the next; Graham 
 wondered at Rosamond's increasing serenity and was 
 almost frightened by it, fearing the shattering effect 
 should disaster come. 
 
 In the election he was victorious by a vote of about 
 two to one; his popularity in the town and the surround- 
 ing country had made public appearances unnecessary 
 to his success. 
 
 Dorothy read the newspaper announcement of the 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 vote and telephoned her congratulations to Rosamond. 
 Since her return from North East Harbor she had visited 
 Rosamond once, and now asked when she might come 
 again. Rosamond said, "Any day; come out for lunch- 
 eon any day." Then Dorothy, reckoning up her engage- 
 ments, announced that she could not come for two 
 weeks. When the day arrived, she had found it neces- 
 sary to sacrifice the acceptance of an attractive luncheon 
 invitation, but she felt sorry for Rosamond, isolated on 
 her hilltop and unable to go anywhere, and kept her 
 engagement with her as a duty rather than as a pleasure. 
 
 At any rate, Rosamond appreciated her new clothes; 
 it was a pleasure to have any one so intelligently appre- 
 ciative, so mildly envious. For Rosamond declared that 
 she had n't been able to get anything new for the au- 
 tumn and did n't know when she could get anything 
 new for the winter; she might have to wear her last 
 year's things right through until spring. After all, it 
 did n't matter much to one living out in the country, 
 though sometimes one got rather tired of one's self. 
 
 "Yes, that's the way I felt, wearing black," said 
 Dorothy. "It got to be a perfect tyranny after a time. 
 But I don't see what's to prevent you from getting new 
 clothes, Rosamond. You can surely come into town 
 whenever you want to; it is n't as if you were nursing 
 the baby." 
 
 "I should n't dare to be away from him; I'm never 
 away from the house for longer than an hour." 
 
 "But with a trained nurse here all the time if any- 
 thing should happen " 
 
 "It does n't make any difference; I should n't dare to 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 go away; I shouldn't be happy. In my place you'd 
 understand." 
 
 "No, I'm sure I should n't. I could n't endure being 
 so tied down all those months beforehand, and now 
 these months afterwards; I should go mad." 
 
 "Not if you felt that staying at home might make the 
 difference between life and death." 
 
 "Yes, but how can you feel that, Rosamond?" 
 
 "I can't tell you, but I do feel it. I feel that the more 
 I do for the baby now, the better his chance. Already 
 it seems to me he knows me and likes to have me handle 
 him. Perhaps it 's only my imagination, but I think he 
 likes me better than the nurse. And then it 's the mental 
 feeling that if anything should happen and I were 
 here I could fight for him, whereas if anything should 
 happen, with me away, I could n't. So I 'm contented to 
 sit at home these days." 
 
 Sitting now in front of the living-room fire and plying 
 her knitting-needles in the manufacture of a filmy baby 
 garment, Rosamond looked, indeed, as if she cherished 
 no grudge against her fate. The color of returning 
 health was in her cheeks, in her hazel eyes was the calm- 
 ness of faith and the brightness of hope, her lips wore 
 both a new sweetness and a new resoluteness. Dorothy 
 looking at her wondered jealously what it was that Rosa- 
 mond had gained and she had missed in marriage and in 
 child-bearing. 
 
 The question in her mind prompted her to ask wist- 
 fully, - 
 
 "Rosamond, don't you ever sometimes wish you were 
 unmarried just a girl again? I do. Not, of course, 
 [ 273 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 because George is n't the best kind of a husband, but 
 just because well, don't you ever have the feeling, 
 Rosamond?" 
 
 "I used to; I suppose every one has it at times. But 
 I have n't had it since I first knew the baby was com- 
 ing." 
 
 "That does n't seem to have made me any less sub- 
 ject to it," confessed Dorothy. "There was something 
 that it seems to me I had every minute before I was 
 married, and that I 've never had since, something 
 that was like the breath of life to me, and that was 
 excitement, excitement over the mystery of the 
 future, excitement in looking forward to every trifling 
 thing, excitement in wondering whether the men I was 
 meeting and the men I was seeing would really like me, 
 excitement in wondering which of them all would finally 
 prove to be the one! Don't you know what I mean, 
 Rosamond?" 
 
 "Of course I do. And I think every girl must in a way 
 regret the passing of that excitement that mystery." 
 
 "Regret it! Oh, Rosamond, sometimes it seems to me 
 almost as if my life were over. It is all so settled, so 
 stupidly, tiresomely settled! It used to be so innocent to 
 want men to like me, and to wonder how much they 
 might and now it is n't innocent any more, and yet 
 I want it just the same! A married woman can't have 
 excitements and thrills and be a good married woman, 
 can she, Rosamond?" 
 
 "It's wiser certainly for her not to have them.'* 
 
 "And yet it's nature, it's instinct!" 
 
 " Sometimes we have to fight against nature and in- 
 [ 274 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 stinct. I suppose the real value and reward of life is in 
 promoting the life and usefulness of others. So why 
 should we feel sad because our girlhood days, with all 
 their shallow excitements and silly thrills, are over? I 
 think that women more than men need to learn resigna- 
 tion; it's more important to their usefulness. 'Whoso 
 seeketh his life' and so on; it's even truer if you change 
 'his' to 'her.'" 
 
 "I can't be a passive sort of person," said Dorothy. 
 " I 'm not ready to retire from the world and live just in 
 and for my child and all that kind of thing." 
 
 "Well," said Rosamond, "I feel that it's a perfectly 
 good career to be a mother. I don't think it 's necessary 
 for you to withdraw from the world; it is, temporarily, 
 for me. But I think when we go into it, we must have a 
 different point of view from the old one. We ought to 
 accumulate observation and experience for the benefit of 
 our children instead of sensations for ourselves. We 
 should n't insist on always viewing ourselves as heroines 
 of romance and we should n't get discontented if 
 others don't view us as such." 
 
 "I wonder if you're one hah* as philosophic as you 
 sound," said Dorothy. "I must say, I exclaim with 
 Keats, 'Oh, for a life of sensations rather than of 
 thoughts!'" 
 
 "There's not much harm in having sensations so 
 long as you don't make them," replied Rosamond. 
 "Now I must see to the baby's feeding; I'll soon be 
 back." 
 
 Dorothy asked if she might not come, too; she wanted 
 to see the baby. 
 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I'm sorry, but he is n't allowed to see any one yet. 
 We still have to be very careful with him." 
 
 Dorothy pondered on Rosamond's point of view, won- 
 dered if she really was as happy as her words and her 
 face indicated, remembered that in the old days she had 
 been as gay and fly-away as any one. She decided that 
 probably Graham's interesting life and prospects in- 
 spired much of Rosamond's contentment, and during 
 luncheon she tried to ascertain just how far these factors 
 affected her point of view. 
 
 "Here I am and I've not mentioned Graham's elec- 
 tion," she said. "Were n't you excited, Rosamond, and 
 are n't you glad he won?" 
 
 "I don't think either of us was much excited," Rosa- 
 mond answered. " It was n't a very exalted office, you 
 know." 
 
 "Still it's a beginning in politics, and so few good men 
 go in for politics! Probably you'll be living in Wash- 
 ington some day. What fun it would be to have a bril- 
 liant social and political career! I'm sure you and 
 Graham will have it, Rosamond." 
 
 "We're not looking ahead to anything of the kind. 
 My one idea is to stay right here and see the little boy 
 get strong and grow healthy and I hope, of course, I 
 shall have other children." 
 
 "Goodness, I don't want to think of having others 
 now," said Dorothy. " Some time, perhaps, but I want 
 a long rest and lots of fun." 
 
 "Well," said Rosamond, "I can understand that, too, 
 and I don't doubt that you '11 have a good time and be as 
 much a belle as you ever were." 
 I 276 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I feel almost as nervous as when I was a debutante. 
 But I have some lovely new dresses, Rosamond. I wish 
 you could come into town ; I should love to show them 
 to you." 
 
 "I wish I could; I should love to see them. Tell me 
 about them." 
 
 And Rosamond listened, quite eagerly; Dorothy 
 observed the wistfulness of her gaze, the interest of her 
 questions. 
 
 "She loves pretty things as much as she ever did," 
 Dorothy thought. "She never before wore last year's 
 dresses and looked a little dowdy ; she does n't like that. 
 And she likes a good time as much as she ever did. It's 
 mean, I know, but I can't help feeling glad that I can 
 make her feel a little discontented. I hate to think that 
 life is so much happier and more satisfactory for other 
 people than for me." 
 
 So she talked on vivaciously of her new clothes and 
 the new styles, of the invitations that she had received, 
 of the promise for a gay winter, of the dinners that her 
 mother was nominally and she really to give, of the new 
 game, bridge whist, that every one was learning and 
 going mad over; and finally, when she rose to take her 
 departure Rosamond said, 
 
 "It is good to hear about the world again. You don't 
 know what a splendid time you 've given me, Dorothy. 
 Do come again soon." 
 
 She kissed her and Dorothy felt instantly ashamed of 
 the moment's satisfaction in troubling Rosamond's 
 contentment, instantly pleased at having brought a ray 
 of color into the poor girl's dull life. 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I shall think of you sitting at your dinner table to- 
 night and wearing which one? The lavender and 
 rose?" said Rosamond. 
 
 "No, the yellow one to-night," replied Dorothy, 
 laughing. 
 
 She wondered how Sidney Hanford would like her in 
 that new yellow gown; she rather hoped she might dazzle 
 him. He had telephoned that morning to ask if he might 
 come in to dinner and afterwards read her something he 
 had written. 
 
 She had not said anything to Rosamond about 
 Sidney Hanford. Well, there was nothing to say.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 A NECESSARY DEPARTURE AND AN UNNECESSARY 
 FAREWELL 
 
 SIDNEY HANFORD passed Christmas with his 
 brother in New Hampshire. He reluctantly de- 
 clined an invitation from Mrs. Vasmer he knew 
 whom to thank for it to dine on that evening at her 
 house. The claims of fraternal duty and avuncular 
 privilege withheld him from gratifying his own inclina- 
 tion which was to see Dorothy Brandon wherever 
 and whenever opportunity offered. Christmas had al- 
 ways been a family day, and he recognized his brother 
 William as now the head of the family; it was his duty 
 on this day of the year to pay William and his wife the 
 respect due to the head. Moreover, it was his privilege 
 to observe his nephew, now old enough to be transported 
 with delight over Christmas presents and Christmas 
 food. Sidney had an affection for the little boy and had 
 made a careful selection of mechanical toys for him; he 
 had especially pinned his hopes on a traveling dump- 
 cart which conveyed a load of sand up an inclined track 
 and discharged it from the top of a derrick scuttling 
 down again to reload the same sand and again hurl it 
 from the height. 
 
 He passed a very domestic Christmas playing on 
 
 the floor with his enthralled nephew most of the day and 
 
 causing his sister-in-law to declare that he was too nice 
 
 a person to go much longer unmarried. She endeavored 
 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 to elicit from him information about the girls he knew 
 in Boston, and professed skepticism when he stated 
 that he did n't know any. 
 
 "Your friend that you visited at North East 
 has n't she put you in the way of making other acquaint- 
 ances?" asked Elizabeth. 
 
 "She's been in mourning until recently," Sidney an- 
 swered. "Oh, I have met a few people at her house, and 
 probably I shall meet others. But I 'm too busy with my 
 work to be interested in girls except as subjects." 
 
 Elizabeth said she always distrusted a man who talked 
 like that. 
 
 She and her husband accompanied Sidney on his 
 return to Boston. Every winter they went to Boston for 
 a week of revelry ; they took a room at the Parker House, 
 and Elizabeth shopped and William looked up various 
 Dartmouth friends ; they dined at different places every 
 night and went to a theater every evening. On this oc- 
 casion Sidney undertook for one evening to play the 
 host; dinner at the Touraine, a box at the theater, and 
 then supper at the Touraine represented the scope of his 
 entertainment, to which he invited George and Dorothy 
 Brandon. Dorothy came without her husband; George 
 had been called off on a case "as usual," Dorothy said. 
 
 Sidney felt that it was one of the pleasantest evenings 
 of his life. He enjoyed the sensation of providing pleas- 
 ure for William and Elizabeth and Dorothy espe- 
 cially Dorothy. It enlivened his spirits to observe how 
 well William and Elizabeth got on with Dorothy, how 
 charmed Dorothy apparently was with William and 
 Elizabeth. He thought that Elizabeth looked really 
 [ 280 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 very pretty in her pink dress, with her swansdown cloak 
 thrown back, and her face animated and excited; and he 
 was sure that Dorothy, gay and lively, with her musical 
 laugh and her shining eyes, was quite the loveliest crea- 
 ture in the world. She was merry and kind and fascinat- 
 ing, and it was no wonder that William found her so 
 enchanting; he could hardly take his eyes off her during 
 dinner, and in the box between the acts she and he talked 
 together earnestly, confidentially. Sidney was proud of 
 the success of his little party, sorry as a young debu- 
 tante is sorry when the pleasant evening came to an end; 
 to close the carriage door upon the radiant Dorothy 
 saddened his spirits. 
 
 It did not cause him at all the same pang to hear the 
 radiant Elizabeth's "Good-night." 
 
 William and Elizabeth remained in Boston only two 
 more days; on the last night of their stay Sidney came 
 to dine with them. After dinner Elizabeth said, "I'm 
 going up to my room; I know that you and Will want to 
 have a talk, Sidney." 
 
 It was in vain that Sidney protested; it struck him 
 momentarily as odd that William did not support his 
 protest. He supposed there was some business matter to 
 be discussed, and after Elizabeth had gone waited for 
 his brother to speak. 
 
 William seemed in no haste to come to the point. He 
 presented Sidney with a very admirable cigar and pre- 
 vailed on him to warm his already comfortable person 
 with a pony of brandy. Then William remarked, 
 
 "Elizabeth and I both think Mrs. Brandon is an 
 uncommonly attractive woman." 
 I 281 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Yes," Sidney agreed. "She is." 
 
 "She's been married how long?" 
 
 "A little over a year." 
 
 "Visiting her at North East last summer you came to 
 know her pretty well, I suppose. You see a good deal of 
 her now?" 
 
 "I see her occasionally." 
 
 "About how often?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Two or three times a week, perhaps? Whenever you 
 feel the need of society, of companionship, you 're likely 
 to go to her? " 
 
 "Confound it, Will, you're not examining witnesses. 
 Your questions are irritating. What are you driving 
 at?" 
 
 "I don't mean to be irritating, Sid. But it has oc- 
 curred to me that perhaps without knowing it you are 
 getting too fond of that attractive lady." 
 
 Sidney flushed. "Mrs. Brandon is one of the best 
 friends I have, and in that way I 'm fond of her. I go to 
 her for criticism and help in my work. That means we 
 have come to know each other pretty well." 
 
 "It means trouble," said William. "There's only one 
 woman to whom a man is justified in carrying his prob- 
 lems and opening up his thoughts, and that's his wife 
 or the woman that he hopes to make his wife. If he 
 chooses any other woman for such a purpose and she 
 responds at all, he will get too much interested in her or 
 she in him, or each in the other. Now, Sid, that's hap- 
 pened between you and Mrs. Brandon." 
 
 "I don't think of her in any improper way. I like her, 
 [ 282 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 I admire her but it 's perfectly absurd for you to draw 
 any such inference!" 
 
 "Sid, you're in love with that woman, and all that 
 would be needed to make you realize it would be to find 
 that she was in love with you." 
 
 "Then I am certainly protected from enlightenment." 
 
 " On the contrary, I think you and she are in 
 grave danger of it. Elizabeth thinks so, too." 
 
 "What nonsense!" 
 
 " My dear Sid, any one could have seen that at dinner 
 the other night she looked at you with the eyes of more 
 than ordinary friendship and you were unconscious 
 of how you looked at her. It was apparent enough on 
 both sides. Elizabeth spoke of it to me afterwards; I had 
 carefully not suggested it to her. But that was n't all. 
 At the theater Mrs. Brandon talked to me about you 
 said you were the most interesting and attractive man 
 she knew, told me what confidence she had in your fu- 
 ture, how fortunate she thought herself in seeing so much 
 of you when you were, so to speak, on the threshold 
 
 "You don't suppose she would talk like that if she had 
 any feeling of the kind you suspect!" 
 
 " I don't think she 's quite aware of the consequence of 
 her interest. But it will grow if you let it, and yours will 
 grow if you let it. In the case of two persons who are 
 so sympathetic and so attracted to each other, that is 
 inevitable if they continue to see each other." 
 
 Sidney was silent a moment. "Does Elizabeth really 
 think she cares about me?" he asked. 
 
 "The first thing that Elizabeth said to me after your 
 theater party was, 'She's hi love with him.'" 
 [ 283 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Out of their stormy incredulity a flash of pleased sur- 
 prise darted from Sidney's eyes. 
 
 "Elizabeth is not always imagining flirtations and 
 romances," continued William. "She's extremely level- 
 headed and would n't ever be suspicious of any ordinary 
 prosaic friendship. But you see, Sid, your eyes and 
 Mrs. Brandon's are too expressive; an observant person 
 could n't fail to read them." 
 
 "Why do you tell me this if you think it's danger- 
 ous?" 
 
 "Because it can't have gone so far that you will refuse 
 to heed the warning. If you stay on in Boston you will 
 continue to see her, probably more and more often, 
 and the effect will be to make both you and her discon- 
 tented and unhappy; you will unsettle her life, and she 
 yours. It would be only a question of time before you 
 came between her and her husband. It 's your duty to 
 go away." 
 
 "If she's unhappy at home and gets some pleasure 
 from her friendship with me " 
 
 "Poppycock!" said William. "Sentimental rubbish. 
 In the first place, have you any reason to believe that 
 her husband is unkind or abusive?" 
 
 "No, but rather inattentive " 
 
 "Even after marriage men have their work to do. 
 Wives must not be exacting." 
 
 "I have no reason to think she's unhappy with her 
 husband," said Sidney, after a pause. " So I have no rea- 
 son to think it's incumbent on me to remove myself." 
 
 "Elizabeth thinks it is," replied William. "She sees 
 from the woman's point of view. First you argue that 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 you should n't go if she's unhappy; now you argue that 
 you should n't go unless she's unhappy." 
 
 Sidney was silent. 
 
 "I realize that I'm urging you to make a sacrifice," 
 William continued. "I'm urging you to put forth your 
 strength when every inclination is towards the course of 
 weakness. But there 's nothing to be gained by lingering 
 on here. Sidney, if you are really an artist, your art 
 ought to be more to you than any woman. Go to New 
 York; you're much more likely to get recognition living 
 and working there than if you stay in Boston." 
 
 The prestige of the elder brother, magnified since he 
 had become head of the family, compelled a respectful 
 weighing of his words. William saw that he had made an 
 impression; he closed his plea by saying, 
 
 " Don't make up your mind at once. Think the situa- 
 tion over. If you do and are honest with yourself, you '11 
 see that there's only one true course to pursue. If you 
 don't take it, you '11 be laying up trouble for yourself and 
 for her." 
 
 " I will think it over," Sidney promised. 
 
 He saw William and Elizabeth take their departure 
 for New Hampshire the next day; he was aware that 
 they both looked at him with a hopeful expression in 
 their eyes. But he was not ready to satisfy their ques- 
 tioning interest, although he knew that he should do 
 what they wished. It might be that they were quite 
 mistaken in regarding him as a menace to Dorothy's 
 happiness, but it was rather flattering to think that he 
 occupied a position of such importance. And on the 
 chance that they were right, it was obviously his duty to 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 go away. He realized that though he was slipping into 
 love for her, it was as yet no passion that prompted him 
 to lawlessness; he liked to think that it might develop 
 into something so tempestuous and irresistible. All the 
 more reason, then, for making off before it should be too 
 late. And of course, even though Dorothy did care for 
 him now, as William and Elizabeth suggested, and he 
 was n't sure that they were n't making a Malvolio of 
 him, her feelings could n't yet be very deep or strong; 
 she would not have more than quite bearable pangs of 
 regret for his departure. 
 
 Anyway, he would do the right thing. He acknowl- 
 edged that his brother had given him sound advice. 
 
 His strength of will was insufficient, however, to 
 insist upon an abrupt departure. He could not deny 
 himself the dismal pleasure of bidding Dorothy fare- 
 well. He hoped and he knew it was unworthy of him 
 to draw from her some display of feeling. 
 
 When he went to see her, she had just returned from 
 a walk in the sharp January air; her cheeks were rosy, 
 her eyes sparkled, the cordiality of her welcome had 
 never been more warm. Sitting in the pleasant draw- 
 ing-room before the fire, while she made tea and talked 
 in the voice that seemed to him the sweetest he had ever 
 heard, he became more clearly aware of the appalling 
 nature of the step that he was about to take. He was 
 about to cut himself off from the greatest pleasure in his 
 life, the greatest stimulus, the greatest happiness. Was 
 it necessary that he should do this? 
 
 And because he realized just now what the sacrifice 
 would be, he knew that it was necessary. 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 His unwonted gravity and silence drew a comment 
 from Dorothy. 
 
 "Tell me about it," she urged. "Something has gone 
 wrong." 
 
 "No; nothing." He hung back from saying the words 
 that would commit him to his painful resolve. 
 
 "You look so glum! Not a bit like yourself." 
 
 "I don't feel much like myself, in fact I feel that 
 pretty soon now I shall be like somebody quite differ- 
 ent." He hesitated and then, seeming to himself in a 
 ridiculous way quietly heroic, he remarked, " I 'm going 
 to New York to live." 
 
 That he had startled her was obvious. She held the 
 lump of sugar suspended over her cup. "To live!" 
 
 "Yes; I've come this afternoon to say good-bye." 
 
 She looked at him with eyes no longer sparkling, but 
 round and puzzled. 
 
 "You take me by surprise. Tell me about it." 
 
 It disappointed him that she could speak so lightly, 
 with no accent of distress in her voice. 
 
 " I 've talked it over with my brother. He feels as I do 
 that there 's probably a better chance of my succeeding if 
 I go to New York. A better chance, perhaps, of getting 
 into the atmosphere of the work that I'm trying to do." 
 
 She looked unconvinced, and the look drove him to 
 add, "Of course, that's not the only reason not the 
 real reason." 
 
 "I see," she said after a moment. "You don't want 
 to tell me the real reason." 
 
 The pique in her tone betrayed her innocence. And 
 then suddenly he knew that he loved her dangerously. 
 [ 287 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "No," he said, "I won't tell you exactly. But I 
 should like you to know, in a way, how much help 
 you've been to me, what you've meant to me. It 
 has n't been just your interest and your criticism 
 much as I 've valued them. Do you know the test that I 
 try to apply to every woman character that I want to 
 make an attractive character? I ask myself, 'Would 
 Dorothy Brandon say that, take that point of view, do 
 that thing?'" 
 
 "That's a very pleasant compliment. And now you 
 think the time has come to introduce more variety into 
 your heroines study some New York models? " Doro- 
 thy's eyes twinkled; he looked at her reproachfully. 
 But she continued, quite unmoved by his appeal, "Well, 
 in that case I must confess you 're acting wisely. But I 
 hope you '11 come back once in a while and see your 
 friends. I'm afraid, though, you'll find us then such 
 dowds!" 
 
 He was deeply disappointed and hurt. How mis- 
 taken William and Elizabeth had been, how gullible 
 himself ! Whether he went or stayed, he was nothing to 
 her. He rose, trying to cover the wound to his pride, 
 trying to believe there had been none to his heart. 
 
 Then, when he took her hand, her lips trembled, her 
 courage failed, and she spoiled it all. "Good-bye," she 
 murmured, and he asked in a kind of ecstasy, 
 
 "You are sorry? Tell me you are sorry!" 
 
 She nodded. "Oh, of course, I knew what you meant 
 I was just trying to make it easier for myself and 
 now I 've made it hard ! " Tears were in her eyes. " Yes, 
 of course, you must go. Good-bye!" 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 He pressed her hand and tingled to her responsive, 
 nervous clasp. And then he was gone. 
 
 She walked restlessly back and forth in the pleasant 
 drawing-room. Marriage what had it done for her? 
 It meant that the moment a man liked her and she liked 
 him and they helped each other to be interested and 
 happy, he must flee her as if she were the pestilence. It 
 had never been so in the old days, before she was mar- 
 ried. O for those vanished days! O for the vanished 
 man! 
 
 Matrimony was an island on which, because of its 
 seeming attractiveness, two persons thoughtlessly 
 marooned themselves only to find that it was a dull 
 little spot, and that though they might signal and signal 
 no rescuing craft would ever come.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 TWIN PRETEXTS, WITH MENTION OF AN IMPORTANT 
 INCIDENT 
 
 THE only remedy for unhappiness that Dorothy 
 knew was the pursuit of pleasure. She had decided 
 that the Morrisons' ball should mark the occasion of her 
 formal reentry into the gay world; she had persuaded her 
 mother to issue invitations for a dinner of twenty on 
 that evening, and to her own imagination she presented 
 the entertainment as one of considerable significance. It 
 was vaguely her idea that it would enable her to show 
 George how much she deserved attention and considera- 
 tion; how easily she might attract it. She was resent- 
 fully desirous of teaching him a lesson through a demon- 
 stration of her popularity; she looked forward thus to 
 gaining for herself a double satisfaction. She wished to 
 have George conduct himself as a lover once more, but 
 first he should be made to woo her for that privilege. It 
 was no part of her design to keep alive a distracting pas- 
 sion; she thought it was her desire to forget Sidney 
 Hanford as soon as possible. 
 
 On the evening of the dinner and ball she stood before 
 her pier-glass fastening her pearl ear-rings; then she 
 surveyed the smooth lengths of pink satin in which her 
 shapely figure was swathed. To her hair she gave a final 
 tuck here, a final pluck there, and then she turned to her 
 husband. 
 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Do I please you?" she asked. 
 
 "Please me! You frighten me. I don't dare believe 
 that anything so splendid is mine!" 
 
 "I hope other people will forget that it is. Oh, I want 
 to have a good time!" 
 
 "I shall have one, just looking at you." 
 
 "You can be quite sweet, can't you, George?" 
 
 They went off together happily. 
 
 The great Vasmer house was illuminated as it had not 
 been for nearly two years. Mrs. Vasmer wore her re- 
 splendent pearls; she seemed to enjoy renewing the 
 sumptuous hospitality of the past. Her dinners had 
 always been characterized by rare wines, rare fruits, rare 
 flowers; it was now the opinion of the most experienced 
 among her guests that the long interval of quiet had 
 produced no deterioration in the standard. 
 
 Dorothy felt more at home in the big dining-room 
 than in her own small one, more unconstrained with this 
 large party than facing her husband across the table all 
 alone. She felt that she would love nothing so much as 
 to go to a dinner every night. When at last it became 
 time to move on to the ball, and George, after handing 
 her into the carriage, took his seat beside her, she 
 exclaimed, 
 
 "Oh, George, I'm having such a good time! And I'm 
 going to have such a good time!" 
 
 He laughed and petted her, glad to see her so shining 
 with happiness and marveling at the kind of thing that 
 roused in a woman delight and excitement. 
 
 But the ball proved disappointing. The men who used 
 to flock around her did not so congregate now. Each one 
 I 291 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 of them had become absorbed in another quest, and she 
 observed it with unimagined pangs. Hugh Shepard 
 seemed to be always dancing with Ellen Morse, Jack 
 Willard was noticeably devoted to Sally Duane, Alex 
 Dunbar seemed to be pursuing a girl whose very name 
 Dorothy had to ask and so it went. All of these old 
 familiar friends came up to Dorothy in the course of the 
 evening and asked her for a dance, Hugh Shepard 
 came twice, but it was not as it used to be when one 
 would "break in" jealously upon another when they 
 watched one another like hawks. Now with each of 
 them she circled, it seemed endlessly. At last, despair- 
 ing, with no relief in sight, she found herself subjected to 
 the hitherto unknown humiliation of being steered up 
 and down the line of waiting, scrutinizing men and of 
 being, as it were, passed upon unfavorably by them all. 
 On each occasion it was her husband who finally relieved 
 the partner chained to her by duty, but no longer by 
 desire. She had not believed that being "out of things" 
 for two years could make such a difference that being 
 married could make such a difference. Perhaps it 
 was n't just that : she observed several young married 
 women who seemed to be popular and to be having as 
 good a time as any of the attractive young debutantes. 
 They were nearly all women who entertained a good 
 deal. Men would dance with people who fed them. Sit- 
 ting out dances, sometimes with her husband, sometimes 
 with elderly matrons who had come merely to look on, 
 Dorothy indulged in bitter reflections, both about hu- 
 man nature and about individuals. 
 And while she was thus trying to comfort her lacer- 
 [ 292 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ated feelings, George had to make his tactless remark. 
 He was waltzing with her, and as he really waltzed very 
 well she could have enjoyed it if he had not been her 
 husband. Suddenly he said, "Isn't it odd! Do you 
 realize that until to-night we had never danced together 
 in all our lives?" 
 
 "Whose fault was that?" she asked. "Why didn't 
 you ever come and dance with me in the old days?" 
 
 "I hardly knew you. And I used to feel there was n't 
 much of a chance to break in you were always sur- 
 rounded by men." 
 
 " It must be a satisfaction to you to see how com- 
 pletely you've put them to flight." 
 
 George, who had instantly regretted a comment that 
 had implied a sense of contrast, hastened to say while he 
 increased the pressure of his arm about her waist, 
 
 "You can't expect me to feel sorry over such a vic- 
 tory, can you?" 
 
 And then because she laughed he thought it was all 
 right. But it was n't all right, although she felt she 
 would rather die than let George know it. She was n't 
 going to let any one suspect her consciousness of humili- 
 ation. But George ought to have had a more sensitive 
 perception than to make such a remark to her. And 
 then it flashed into her mind, "Sidney Hanford would 
 never have said such a thing." He had too subtle an in- 
 sight, he would have known how a woman would feel. If 
 Sidney Hanford were only at this ball! Then she 
 would n't care if George never came near her, and 
 Sidney would n't care either, not like those others, 
 wriggling to get away to other girls. 
 [ 293 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Then and there she made two resolves: One, not to 
 give Sidney Hanford up, the other, to recover her old 
 prestige. 
 
 The next day she wrote to Sidney; she addressed him 
 in the care of the New York magazine that had just pub- 
 lished one of his stories; she assumed that an editor so 
 favorably disposed would be one of the first persons to 
 be apprised of his change of address. The story she made 
 her first pretext for writing; it was one that he had sub- 
 mitted to her in manuscript, and her criticism had 
 prompted him to make alterations. So it was natural 
 enough for her to wish to express her approval and appre- 
 ciation of the story, and it was only at the end of the let- 
 ter and as if by chance that she mentioned a projected 
 shopping trip to New York which she was taking in 
 about ten days. And in a bantering way she asked if he 
 would not give her an opportunity to pass upon his New 
 York model of a heroine; in that case, perhaps, he would 
 dine with her at her hotel and they could have a pleasant 
 literary evening. 
 
 His reply came promptly; he would hold himself en- 
 gaged to dine with her on any evening that she named. 
 Thus the shopping trip which had originated as a pre- 
 text developed into an enterprise. 
 
 In the week that elapsed before it Dorothy was rest- 
 less and excited. Her excitement, as she well knew, was 
 only in a small degree attributable to the prospect of 
 seeing Sidney again. The adventure, and the secrecy 
 with which she must carry it out, the consciousness of 
 moral guilt which yet was not serious enough to stamp 
 her as immoral, the sense of triumph in having broken 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 down so easily another's praiseworthy determination, 
 all had their part in producing the elation with which 
 she anticipated the trip to New York. 
 
 Dorothy could always be happy when excitements of a 
 pleasant kind were imminent. She had no far horizon 
 on which to rest her gaze; her life had always been one of 
 scrambling eagerly towards events in the near future. 
 Now, cherishing her secret, she undertook with a cheer- 
 ful spirit the domestic duties that had bored or irritated 
 her; she gave the baby more care than usual and tried to 
 persuade herself that she enjoyed it, for she did not like 
 to feel that she was in any respect an abnormal mother. 
 But the baby, accustomed to his nurse's handling, re- 
 sented that which Dorothy bestowed on him, cried in his 
 bath, balked at his bottle, and conducted himself in other 
 ways with such disregard for her sensibilities that she 
 soon resigned again the tasks that she had appropriated. 
 She cuddled him and played with him at intervals dur- 
 ing the day and looked forward with some impatience 
 to the time when he should be able to discriminate in her 
 favor between her and a servant. 
 
 She had decided not to go to any more balls until she 
 could be sure of a following. The endeavor to induce 
 her mother to give a house dance proved fruitless. 
 George wondered at the number of college youths whom 
 he found dining informally at his table; he wondered 
 how Dorothy got hold of them, and why. She confessed 
 to herself an ignominy in owing recovery of social 
 prestige to such machinations; still, at a ball a man 
 counted for a man so long as he was not one's hus- 
 band. 
 
 [ 295 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 The trip to New York was but the first of many. 
 Nothing surely could have been more innocent than the 
 evening that she spent with Sidney. The talk was almost 
 entirely of him his manner of life, his writing, the 
 recognition that his work was beginning to receive; each 
 of them was scrupulously careful to avoid any reference 
 to the circumstances under which they had last parted. 
 After dinner, they found a quiet and deserted little 
 writing-room in the hotel; Sidney produced his pages of 
 manuscript; once more Dorothy was his Egeria. 
 
 It was all so innocent and, from Dorothy's point of 
 view so satisfactory, that at the end she said, "I come 
 over to New York quite often. I '11 let you know when I 
 come again; I think it's pleasant to keep track of each 
 other, don't you?" 
 
 "I hope you'll come often and always let me 
 know," was his answer. 
 
 Dorothy stayed over the next morning to do the 
 shopping required if she was to distinguish scrupulously 
 between truth and fiction. It imposed upon her the per- 
 ception that her contemplated expeditions to New York 
 would be expensive affairs. The discovery was an awk- 
 ward one, for she had but recently learned how much it 
 increases the cost of living to emerge from mourning. 
 She consoled herself with the reflection that her mother 
 would always give her money to go to New York and 
 buy clothes, and with the fact that George was becoming 
 more prosperous. And she returned to Boston really 
 happy in the feeling that now she would have a secret 
 all her own a secret so little, little guilty as to be quite 
 innocent. There was no reason why George should n't 
 [ 296 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 know about it, except that it made it so much more 
 exciting to keep him from knowing about it. 
 
 With Sidney leashed again and matters in train for a 
 more active social career, Dorothy was reasonably con- 
 tented. A succession of small excitements now enabled 
 her to perform a series of eager scrambles, and for one 
 who had no far horizon this constituted a tolerably 
 satisfactory life. 
 
 Then Mrs. Vasmer fell suddenly ill; a week from the 
 day on which pneumonia declared itself she died.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 GEORGE PREPARES TOR LESSONS IN A NEW SCHOOL 
 
 SORROW for her mother's death brought Dorothy 
 nearer to George. His tenderness and sympathy 
 reminded her again of the sad days in London and on the 
 steamer when he had been a comfort and a support. The 
 qualities that had first caused her to love him revealed 
 themselves now; it touched her now to realize how true 
 had been his affection for her mother, how well he ap- 
 preciated her quality, and how sincere was his grief. 
 Dorothy was aware that her own attitude towards her 
 mother had been too much that of a spoiled child; she 
 had buffeted and banged at her without compassion, to 
 get what she wanted; she had cajoled and instructed and 
 badgered her, but she had always felt that in any calam- 
 ity, in any crisis, she would have her mother, unfailingly 
 and generously stanch, to uphold and direct her. That 
 broad bosom rather than her husband's shoulder had 
 represented to her the most enduring and unchanging 
 love in all the world; Dorothy had never really thought 
 of finding herself deprived of that haven and anchorage; 
 she had relegated such an event to the dim limbo of 
 inevitable yet unthinkable dooms. 
 
 Kind and considerate though George was at this time, 
 
 appreciative of her mother's qualities though he showed 
 
 himself, Dorothy felt that not he but Sidney Hanford 
 
 revealed the truest insight and understanding. Sidney 
 
 [ 298 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 had written to Dorothy upon learning of Mrs. Vasmer's 
 death, and Dorothy wondered how merely from the two 
 weeks' acquaintance at North East Harbor he could 
 have made so discriminating a study of her mother's 
 character; she loved him, in a perfectly pure, impersonal 
 way, for writing so beautifully about her. It made 
 Dorothy feel more certain than ever of his ability to 
 interpret the human heart; she did not show the letter to 
 George, for she chose to feel it was sacred to herself, this 
 beautiful summarizing of her mother's character; she put 
 it away in a drawer of her desk, and often took it out for 
 its ever fresh and vivid pictures of one forever dear. 
 
 George found himself named as one of the executors 
 of Mrs. Vasmer's estate. From his first conference with 
 her legal adviser he returned home more troubled than 
 elated by his discoveries. It was the nurse's afternoon 
 out; Dorothy was putting the baby to bed, and the baby 
 was crying. 
 
 "Do take your horrid child!" Dorothy exclaimed. 
 "He really behaves as if he hated me!" 
 
 George laughed and hoisted the bawling infant into 
 the air. The wails ceased; a second toss irradiated the 
 small face with humorous delight; a third evoked a 
 squeal of tiny laughter. The father returned his son to 
 the mother's lap; then, when the small lips drew down in 
 pained surprise at this betrayal, he dangled his watch 
 for the infantile fingers to clutch, and thus standing over 
 the child and amusing him assisted in a peaceful undress- 
 ing. 
 
 "I could keep him quiet myself," Dorothy said re- 
 sentfully, "if I could play with one hand while I worked 
 [ 299 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 with the other. I don't know how Annie manages. He 
 does n't cry with her." 
 
 "Never mind; he's more used to her; there's no need 
 to be jealous of Annie." 
 
 "I'm not jealous of Annie; how absurd! But I do 
 think that, considering what I went through for him, I 
 might have a more appreciative child. Stop it!" For 
 with his hands being torn from the watch and poked into 
 the sleeve of his nightgown little George had again 
 begun to wail. 
 
 At last he lay quiet in his crib, and in the next room 
 Dorothy proceeded to dress for dinner. George, who to 
 her unexpressed annoyance thought it too great a bore 
 to dress for dinner unless guests were coming to the 
 house, lounged in an easy-chair and smoked a cigarette. 
 He saw that she was in a mood which might be im- 
 proved by the receipt of cheerful news; he felt that the 
 discovery which somewhat troubled him would seem 
 cheerful news to her. 
 
 "Dorothy," he said, "have you any idea how rich you 
 are?" 
 
 She turned from the mirror, interested at once. 
 
 "No. I know that mother had a good deal of money 
 of her own, besides what father left her. I suppose she 
 had an income of forty or fifty thousand dollars." 
 
 "Mr. Wharton and I have been going over the 
 abstract of her estate. After the bequests to friends 
 and servants and charities are deducted, there will be 
 between three and four million dollars' worth of property 
 all left to you." 
 
 "George, you don't mean it!" 
 [ 300 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Somehow it made him a little sad that her eyes were as 
 incredulously joyful as her voice. 
 
 "Yes, it's rather staggering, is n't it? I used to think 
 that if we could have a couple of hundred thousand be- 
 tween us we 'd be pretty well fixed. Now you '11 be hav- 
 ing pretty nearly that amount annually." 
 
 "Won't it be fine! Oh, George, are n't you glad?" 
 
 He did not answer her directly. "Your mother also 
 left me a hundred thousand dollars. You see, she 
 wanted to make me feel independent of your great 
 wealth." 
 
 "Yes, I can understand how she felt. Won't it be 
 splendid to be not just rich, but disgustingly rich! The 
 clothes I '11 wear, and the horses and carriages we '11 have, 
 and the parties I'll give!" He saw that she was more 
 than half jesting, but she realized that her words were 
 hardly appropriate to a state of mourning. She added 
 more earnestly, "And the poor people we'll help! That 
 will be best of all, won't it, George? It's because mother 
 did so much of that sort of thing that I never suspected 
 how rich she was." 
 
 "It may be rather small of me," George said, "but I 
 can't help feeling sorry, Dorothy, that you 're to have so 
 much money. It cuts the ground out from under my 
 feet. My earnings that have been necessary won't be 
 necessary any longer they will be positively paltry by 
 comparison. I shall be deprived of what has been a great 
 satisfaction." 
 
 "You'll be deprived of miserable worries," rejoined 
 Dorothy. 
 
 George was silent; he did not wish to state what was 
 I 301 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 his real fear that not only his earnings but he himself 
 might become hi this altered condition less necessary to 
 Dorothy. He feared that he might find himself a mere 
 appendage to a household. And he was apprehensive, 
 too, of the effect of his wife's inheritance upon his pro- 
 fessional future. There would be men only too ready 
 now to decry him and his work; the husband of an heir- 
 ess never occupied an enviable position. That he could 
 longer be earnestly ambitious in the profession of sur- 
 gery would be doubted. Opportunities that before would 
 have been open to him would very likely now be denied 
 him. And it would be a harder effort to keep his heart in 
 his work; of that he was most afraid. Adjusted to main- 
 tain a proper balance with the force of gravity, the sense 
 of financial buoyancy would have been delightful; but 
 the balloon had been blown too big; it would pull him 
 hither and thither, skipping and kicking, in a frantic 
 effort to keep a foothold on the ground. 
 
 There was no immediate change in the Brandon way 
 of living. Dorothy decided that for the summer she 
 would go to the house at North East Harbor, and that 
 when she came back in the autumn they would move 
 into the Commonwealth Avenue house. George acqui- 
 esced; indeed, he felt already that in the decision of such 
 questions acquiescence must necessarily be his part. 
 Dorothy, in making these plans, was scrupulous to pro- 
 vide for him. He must have an office elsewhere than in 
 his home a large office, with well-equipped waiting- 
 room, consulting-room, and operating-room. She under- 
 took to find such a place for him, and she found it, in the 
 next block on Marlborough Street not five minutes' 
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 walk from the Commonwealth Avenue house. That 
 dwelling in its existing form did not have her approval ; 
 she put it into the hands of an architect whom George, 
 after observing his work upon it, termed a specialist in 
 abdominal surgery upon houses. His labors, completed 
 during the summer, made the interior more spacious and 
 more elegant; and a new doorway on the street level, 
 protected by an elaborate iron grille, gave an effect of 
 lightness, youth, and fashion to the middle-aged facade. 
 
 Dorothy made frequent trips to New York, to buy 
 things for the house and for herself. She had decided 
 that she would now go to New York always for clothes ; a 
 distinct note of smartness made its appearance in her 
 mourning garments. To Hetty Mallory it was displeas- 
 ing. Hetty felt that it transformed an emblem of sor- 
 row into an advertisement of worldliness. But she 
 uttered no criticism, and she rejoiced in George's good 
 fortune for to her simple soul Dorothy's fortune was 
 George's good fortune; there was no other way of view- 
 ing it. 
 
 As for Dorothy, she was quite beyond criticism she 
 gave herself, so to speak, only credit marks. Because on 
 her trips to New York she did not always see Sidney 
 Hanford, she accounted it to herself as a merit. She had 
 a dim feeling that they ought not to see too much of each 
 other, and that by not seeing each other whenever they 
 chose, they stopped on the safe side. Sometimes it 
 occurred to her that if George should ever learn how 
 often she and Sidney had lunched together and dined 
 together, it would be rather awkward not because 
 there had been anything improper in their so doing, but 
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 because she had always kept it a secret. So all the more 
 it became necessary to make a secret of it and that 
 fact contributed to the excitement, the thrill, of the 
 meetings. 
 
 Dr. Armazet in his blunt way asked George if he 
 meant to keep on practicing out of pride or out of love 
 for his work. "Out of both," George answered. "Then 
 money won't hurt you ; it may help," said the surgeon. 
 He had already begun to treat George as an associate 
 rather than as an assistant; now George realized that 
 Dr. Armazet was watching him critically to see whether 
 he should deserve to be received definitely upon such 
 terms. He was aware of similar critical scrutiny from 
 other surgeons with whom he came into relation; it 
 stimulated him to closer study and harder effort. Along 
 with this his duties as executor made heavy and irksome 
 demands upon his time. He followed Dorothy and her 
 doings less observantly than ever. He was usually now so 
 preoccupied as not to be keenly aware of the attitude of 
 people towards him; nevertheless there were occasions 
 when it presented itself to his consciousness humorously. 
 He could not help noticing, for instance, the increased 
 docility and eagerness to please of the heretofore casual 
 and indifferent servants. With the filing of the will for 
 probate the newspapers printed a list of Mrs. Vasmer's 
 bequests to charities and individuals, including that 
 of one hundred thousand dollars to her son-in-law, 
 and informed the public that the residue of the estate, 
 amounting to between three and four million dollars, 
 had been left to her daughter, Mrs. George Brandon. 
 For some days thereafter George would have been dull, 
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 indeed, not to notice the urbanity of the corner cabman, 
 the graciousness of the policeman at the Boylston Street 
 crossing, the interest that even patients, most self- 
 jentered of creatures, displayed in him. It all made him 
 rather shy of going to his club, but when he entered it 
 one afternoon he was at once reassured. From a group 
 in a corner Steve Foster called out, "Hello, George! I 
 hear that you're simply rotten with money. You can 
 set up the drinks." 
 
 George and Dorothy were so busy in their separate 
 ways this spring that there was not much to draw them 
 together. Dorothy would not consider the idea of hav- 
 ing another child at least, not now, with all the prep- 
 arations she had to make, and the necessity of moving 
 in the autumn. Besides, she was entitled to a rest and 
 George did n't think she was a good mother anyway, so 
 probably she ought not to have more children. Always a 
 faint note of bitterness and resentment introduced itself 
 into their discussion of this matter.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 GEORGE FINDS THAT IT IS EASIER TO LEARN LESSONS 
 THAN TO TEACH THEM 
 
 DOROTHY did not like to admit to herself how 
 much she was looking forward to the summer at 
 North East Harbor. It was not because of the charms 
 the- place had to offer, or because she was always hap- 
 pier there than in Boston. During one of her trips to 
 New York in April she had said to Sidney, "We see so 
 little of each other the rest of the year don't you 
 think you could make us a visit at North East this sum- 
 mer? " And Sidney without any compunctions had said, 
 "Yes." 
 
 George made plans to take his vacation in July and 
 did not object to Dorothy's proposal that they invite 
 Sidney to pass two weeks of that month with them. At 
 the same time the suggestion reminded him of Hetty's 
 warning, which he had long since forgotten. Now the 
 memory disquieted him. A germ of suspicion got en- 
 trance to his mind. Since Hanford had moved to New 
 York, Dorothy had not so much as mentioned his name, 
 yet in spite of this six months' silence she was proposing 
 a visit from him. George wondered if she had in the 
 interval been keeping track of him, exchanging com- 
 munications with him; only on that supposition did the 
 desire to invite him seem plausible. 
 
 George did not choose to question his wife; if she had 
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 secrets they were of course innocent. It hurt him, how- 
 ever, to think that there should have been any clandes- 
 tine correspondence. And then he remembered that he 
 had no evidence of this beyond the most vague circum- 
 stantial. He wondered if perhaps his own attempt to 
 win away another man's wife had made him morbidly 
 ready to believe that all men were philanderers and that 
 even the best of women had a receptive ear. 
 
 It disarmed him somewhat to find that Dorothy 
 planned to invite the Rappallo family also for July. 
 Without any idea of the extent of Dorothy's knowledge, 
 George was aware that she knew a good deal about his 
 former love for Rosamond; and he had always admired 
 the magnanimity with which she assumed and never 
 questioned that this love was forever past. He felt that 
 he should display a similar magnanimity in not stooping 
 to suspicion. 
 
 When George arrived at North East Harbor, he found 
 Rosamond and her little son Robert already there. 
 Graham had been unable to come; legal work and town 
 affairs combined to make a long vacation impossible for 
 him. The little Robert was quite as strong and promis- 
 ing as the little George; Rosamond herself was in the 
 most blooming health; there was a new serenity and 
 loveliness in her eyes. Dorothy confided to George the 
 secret that Rosamond had confided to her, that she 
 was going to have another baby, and asked if there 
 was danger of her having to undergo another desperate 
 crisis. George thought there must always be danger. 
 " I don't know how she does it, I 'm free to admit," said 
 Dorothy. "I could n't. I never saw a girl so changed; 
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 she thinks of nothing but babies; she means to have one 
 right after another, indefinitely. She used to be lively 
 and up and coming and always good fun; now she's just 
 placid." 
 
 Perhaps Rosamond had changed; George did not find 
 her less attractive on that account. She seemed, if any- 
 thing, simpler and kinder, more interested in the little 
 commonplace things of life, and rather whimsical in her 
 sense of detachment from larger issues. When she heard 
 Dorothy complaining to George about the dullness of 
 North East, she exclaimed, "Good gracious, Dorothy, 
 you don't mean that you still want to do things ! Why, 
 it seems to me that the great advantage of marriage is 
 its restfulness." 
 
 "Not to me," said Dorothy. "I'm not willing to sit 
 and let the world go by." 
 
 "I should hate to think it might stop and wait for 
 me," replied Rosamond. "I'm quite demoralized, I 
 admit. I 've reached the point where I get more pleasure 
 thinking about the baby's clothes than about my own." 
 
 Indeed, she seemed always at work upon some tiny 
 garment; George watched her flying fingers with admira- 
 tion and sometimes surprised in himself desires that 
 shamed him; remembering how he had once clasped 
 those hands, he felt that he would like suddenly to seize 
 them again. As often as he caught himself thus playing 
 with the fringe of temptation he was frightened; he did 
 not know what seeds of lawlessness might still be lurking 
 in him. Abruptly he would take himself out of sight of 
 those beautiful fingers, out of sound of the soft voice; he 
 would call on Dorothy to bear him company, and 
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 climbing with her on the mountains or sailing with her 
 among the islands he would try to revive the spirit of 
 comradeship which was to have been warm and vivid 
 always and now seemed to have sunk into a torpid 
 slumber. He was never conscious of any great success in 
 the effort. It was as if, gazing from the summits to 
 which they climbed, scanning the shores along which 
 they sailed, they dwelt on sights in visible to each other. 
 For George there were pictures of Rosamond, serene, 
 making her pretty, useful little garments, playing with 
 the babies, his and hers, gallantly expectant, fearlessly 
 content. For Dorothy there were pictures, too, George 
 was sure; sometimes he wondered what they were, and 
 sometimes he wondered that he cared so little what they 
 were. 
 
 When Sidney arrived, George knew instinctively 
 where Dorothy's thoughts had been. Instead of being 
 restless, Dorothy now was eager and vivacious; instead 
 of being moody, she was now quietly happy. Then, in 
 spite of the sensation that Rosamond's presence gave 
 him, George knew that he did care very much what pic- 
 tures his wife carried in her mind. Sidney, whom he had 
 always liked, he began to regard with suspicion and 
 hostility. He wondered how much intercourse there had 
 been between Dorothy and Sidney, how often they 
 wrote to each other, how many times Dorothy had seen 
 him in New York. He was too proud to open up this 
 subject with his wife. Often it happened that good 
 women fell victims to absurd infatuations from which 
 they speedily recovered. He might question Dorothy's 
 discretion, but never her integrity, her innocence. 
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 Sidney no longer seemed to George the frank and 
 candid person that he remembered. George thought of 
 the first evening that Sidney had ever passed at the 
 little Marlborough Street house; George had been 
 amused and touched and pleased by Sidney's undis- 
 guised, ingenuous, speechless admiration for Dorothy; 
 it had glowed in his eyes, it had entranced his lips. Sid- 
 ney's admiration was no longer so easy to read; he had 
 gained subtlety and flexibility and did not betray him- 
 self now with a glance of the eye,' much less with an 
 adoring gaze. From his demeanor nothing could be 
 inferred beyond the probability that he was on his 
 guard. 
 
 George had but two days in which to make observa- 
 tions and draw inferences. He was unexpectedly sum- 
 moned to Boston by a message from Dr. Armazet, whom 
 an attack of rheumatism had incapacitated. Finding 
 that his host was leaving, Sidney proposed to take his 
 departure also, but Dorothy would not hear of it. 
 
 "You've just begun your vacation; you must n't have 
 it spoiled. Mrs. Rappallo is staying on with me, you 
 know, so you need n't feel that the conventions 
 require you to leave, need he, George?" 
 
 "Not in the least," George replied; his predominating 
 idea at this moment was that he must exhibit no sign of 
 jealousy or suspicion. His voice was cordial as he added, 
 "Don't compel me to feel, Hanford, that I've spoiled 
 your vacation as well as my own." 
 
 "You're both of you very kind," Sidney answered. 
 "I don't find it at all hard to be persuaded." 
 
 Dorothy assisted in speeding the preparations for her 
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 husband's departure. She felt relieved that he was 
 going. She had already found that his presence during 
 Sidney's visit embarrassed and constrained her and that 
 she did not show at her best either to her husband or to 
 Sidney. Now she assisted almost too cheerfully in pack- 
 ing George's bag. He was thinking that she took small 
 pains to disguise her feelings. Suddenly she looked up at 
 him and said, 
 
 "You'll come back and have a good long visit with 
 me, won't you, George? You need the rest; you know 
 you do. And I shall be so lonely when you 're not here 
 especially after the others are gone," she added hon- 
 estly. 
 
 " Perhaps they can be persuaded to stay all summer," 
 he remarked. "One of them at least might not find it at 
 all hard to be persuaded." 
 
 The dry echo of Sidney's polite speech caused 
 Dorothy to flush. 
 
 "Of course one wants to see something of other men 
 than one's husband," she said. "But it does n't follow 
 that one wants to see other men all the time." 
 
 He kissed her in token of his regret for his acid speech, 
 but she received the caress rather coldly ; she wished to 
 let him know that she had been wounded. He was not 
 much concerned over her coolness. 
 
 In the moment of departure he was really more sorry 
 to be saying good-bye to Rosamond than to his wife. 
 He would soon be with Dorothy again, but there might 
 never be another such opportunity to renew companion- 
 ship with Rosamond. And this, that was to have lasted 
 for three weeks, had been diminished to five days. 
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 Later in the summer George returned to North East 
 Harbor for a short visit. There were no guests in the big 
 house; Dorothy gave him an affectionate welcome, 
 showed a keen interest in his report of the progress of 
 alterations on the Commonwealth Avenue house, and 
 after the first evening relapsed into spiritless indiffer- 
 ence. Life at North East for one in mourning was very 
 dull so dull that Dorothy did n't feel justified in ask- 
 ing any one to visit her; the baby had reached an age 
 when he screamed if he was crossed in anything; the 
 only choice for her seemed to lie between a vegetating 
 existence and a consciousness of irritated nerves. She 
 wanted to fly, she wanted to travel, she wanted to have 
 some excitement; here she had all this money, and what 
 was she doing with it! 
 
 George suggested that he could help her, perhaps, to 
 put some of it to use in hospital and dispensary work, 
 in supplying slum babies with good milk, and training 
 mothers But he spoke incautiously ; that which was a 
 hobby with him, encouraged by his sister Hetty, was a 
 peculiar irritation to his wife. She shut him off abruptly. 
 
 "I really don't feel that I care to hear a talk on 
 mothers." Then she continued in a burst of vehemence, 
 "Charities enough recommend themselves to me. And 
 goodness knows I do my share by charities. But I want 
 to have fun and excitement and influence! If only you 
 were in public life, like Graham Rappallo, so that I 
 could help your fortunes ! If I could feel that I counted 
 even if it was mostly through my money ! " 
 
 "Don't worry about counting; of course you count! 
 But that's never the thing to think of." 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "What is the thing to think of? It's what a woman 
 nowadays must think of." 
 
 "If she does, she's likely to confuse self-assertion 
 with self-expression. More women than ever before 
 think that to assert themselves is to express themselves. 
 That means discontent for them and unhappiness for 
 others." 
 
 "How should a woman express herself? There's no 
 one way for everybody." 
 
 "Yes, there is. Self-expression is the answer that one 
 makes to the voice of duty. According to that answer 
 you express yourself." 
 
 "Good gracious! I feel as if I had married one of the 
 Puritan Fathers!" 
 
 Often when it suited her convenience she referred 
 ironically to George's little homily. No, the voice of 
 duty had not instructed her that the time had come 
 when she should bear more children. Duty had not whis- 
 pered to her that she should always have one eye on a 
 nursemaid as competent and devoted as Annie, or that 
 she should appropriate Annie's tasks. Sometimes she 
 put the catchword to a more lightly humorous use. The 
 voice of duty had informed her that when she got back 
 to Boston she must have one of those new automobiles. 
 She overplayed her humor; she employed the voice of 
 duty to announce her various intentions and desires, and 
 George grew accustomed to respond with a tired and 
 silent smile. 
 
 After all, she was not happy; and she was less happy 
 since the Sunday that Graham Rappallo had passed at 
 her house. Graham and Rosamond had been absorbed 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 in each other like lovers all the time of his stay quite 
 unobservant of Dorothy and Sidney, utterly careless of 
 Dorothy's and Sidney's observation. It was rather 
 idiotic for two persons to be so engrossed yet it must 
 be pleasant, too. Dorothy knew that it would not be 
 possible ever to forget herself with George in that way. 
 Her whole soul was suffused with a blind, miserable 
 pain for she knew that with some one else, if she 
 had met him first and he had cared, it might have 
 been possible. Even now it was a matter of concern and 
 agitation to her to wonder how much he cared. If it was 
 very much, he had held himself well in hand, even at 
 parting. If it was not very much, could he and she be so 
 fatally drawn to each other? If it was not very much, 
 could he write to her as he did, taking her into his confi- 
 dence in everything except that which she most wished 
 to know? But, after all, she knew it, without any dec- 
 laration from him. He was trying to be honorable and 
 firm and self -controlled; the thought caused her in imag- 
 ination to embrace his knees. She could not break off all 
 intercourse with him; to see him occasionally was neces- 
 sary to her life her mental and spiritual life. Oh, life 
 that might have been so glorious, so radiant, and was so 
 sad! 
 
 She was disappointed in herself never a moment 
 when she was not disappointed in herself. 
 
 And then must come her husband, with his talk about 
 the voice of duty!
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 SEPARATE ROADS 
 
 THE fires of the October sunset spread fan-like in the 
 sky above the pines. Loose clouds that a few mo- 
 ments before had been floating like thistledown lay 
 immobilized in radiance and crystallized to amber. 
 Streamers from the central glow reached higher and 
 higher towards the translucent zenith. A late, lingering 
 robin piped its sweet and poignant note, as if in question 
 of the mystery of the flaming west ever consuming, 
 ever unconsumed. 
 
 From the veranda of her house, where she had stood 
 looking off at the phenomenon that daily shed a glamour 
 over her little world, Rosamond took her loitering way 
 along the avenue to the foot of the slope. She was all in 
 white, from canvas hat to canvas shoes; she moved, a 
 noiseless, shining figure, across the shadowed lawn. 
 Even with the sunset there was no autumn chill in the 
 air, and the shrilling of the crickets in the neighboring 
 meadow and the chunking of the frogs in the distant 
 swamp betokened no expectancy of imminent frosts and 
 muted instruments. 
 
 As she passed the row of young horse-chestnut trees, a 
 whim of memory carried her back to the evening in 
 spring six years before when she had touched their 
 unfolding leaves and thought how like a baby's hand 
 they were. They were not like it any more they had 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 grown large and different but that fancied resem- 
 blance had always especially endeared those trees to her, 
 and often when she was alone and near them she would 
 look at them with a smile. She stood for a few moments 
 now absorbed in a tender memory of the happy emotion 
 with which on that long past evening she had walked 
 here and felt for the first time in her own being the stir of 
 another life than hers. Poor little baby who had never 
 nursed at his mother's breast, poor little mother who 
 had been so cheated of her hope! she thought of them 
 with a not too tragic pity; the boy had grown as one 
 unaware of any loss, and she had twice now known the 
 joy of suckling a child. Yet hallowed for her beyond 
 the others was the coming of her firstborn, sweet the 
 memory of the awaiting, keen the feeling that he and 
 she together had known suffering and feebleness and 
 should be always all the more near and dear. 
 
 From behind the blue spruce at the entrance of the 
 avenue came a rustle and a murmur. Rosamond 
 glanced towards the tree and smiled. 
 
 "Bobby! "she called. 
 
 There was a moment of silence and hesitation; then 
 from behind the spruce scampered two little figures in 
 white, laughing with the doubtful glee of the caught. 
 
 "Hello, mother!" shouted Bobby. 
 
 "Hello, auntie!" shouted George. 
 
 "What are you little boys doing here? You both 
 should be at your suppers." 
 
 "George wanted to see his daddy come, and then he 
 was going to jump out and surprise him," said Bobby. 
 
 "And what were you doing, Bobby?" 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I was just helping George." 
 
 "Well, that was very nice of you both. But George's 
 daddy may not come for some time, and meanwhile your 
 suppers are waiting. Now we '11 all have a race up to the 
 house." 
 
 She let them run ahead, following always just closely 
 enough to convince them that she was trying hard to 
 win. She could n't help being glad that Bobby took and 
 held the lead; she could n't help being glad that he was 
 the stronger and stouter of the two; and yet her heart 
 warmed to little George; he was a sensitive, appealing, 
 delicate little boy. Soon she saw them settled at the 
 small table in a corner of the piazza; Alexander, aged 
 four, and David, aged two, were already soberly em- 
 ployed and did not permit the arrival of their breathless 
 elders to disturb their gravity. Rosamond seated her- 
 self where she could overlook the proceedings. 
 
 "I ate a fly," Alexander presently announced. 
 
 The statement failed of producing the intended sen- 
 sation, Alexander's imaginings being pretty well dis- 
 counted by both his mother and his elder brother, and 
 being as yet hardly intelligible to David. 
 
 "He was a great big fly," asserted Alexander. "He 
 had a green back and his wings tickled my throat." 
 
 Even this authentic detail failed to elicit comment. 
 
 "He was in my soup." 
 
 The lack of interest betrayed by the continuing silence 
 was discouraging, and after a little while Alexander 
 began to amuse himself by blowing bubbles in his tum- 
 bler of water and making a gurgling sound. This was 
 something that David could do, and with hilarity David 
 I 317 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 entered into competition. Soon all four were participat- 
 ing in a water-bubble concert, from which they occa- 
 sionally took breath to squeal with laughter. At last 
 Rosamond said, " Now it is time for little boys who have 
 finished their supper to go to bed." There was some 
 dissent and some hasty effort to prove that supper was 
 still far from finished. Resistance, however, was not 
 prolonged; the nurse appeared and led away the three 
 little Rappallos. " George is going to stay here with me 
 to see his father," said Rosamond. "I'll come up hi a 
 few minutes to kiss you all good-night." 
 
 George sat on a hassock by his Aunt Rose's chair, 
 that was what he had been taught to call her, and 
 leaned back so that his head rested on her lap and his 
 face was upturned. Then she put her hand under his 
 chin and stroked his chin and his neck; it was a soft 
 hand that knew how to stroke without tickling. She told 
 George a story about a boy who crawled with a sprained 
 ankle across a burning bridge and flagged a train just in 
 time to save it from being dashed to pieces in the ravine 
 below, and George, who had been getting sleepy, grew so 
 thrilled and so entranced that he hardly heard the 
 motor-car come purring up the avenue. But at the 
 sound of his father's voice, he bounced up from the has- 
 sock and away from the story; he raced along the 
 veranda and launched himself into his father's arms. 
 
 He sat on his father's knee with his head on his father's 
 shoulder and grew drowsy, until he heard Auntie Rose 
 say that it was time for her to go up and bid her boys 
 good-night. "And that means it's your bedtime, my 
 son," said George's father. Then George put his lips to 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 his father's ear and whispered. "He wants me to help 
 him get to bed," the elder George explained. "Of 
 course, he does," said Rosamond, and she led the way up 
 to the little room that was set apart as George's own. 
 The father undressed his son, patted and stroked the 
 smooth little body, said, "George, we'll have to build 
 those shoulders up if we 're to make a football player of 
 you;" then, with the pang that the sight of innocence 
 always evoked hi him, he heard the kneeling child patter 
 softly through his prayers. 
 
 He tucked the little boy into bed and bent over to 
 kiss him. "Good-night, old man. It's good to have had 
 this glimpse of you." 
 
 "Oh! Won't you be here in the morning, father?" 
 The voice was disappointed, even grieved. 
 
 " I wish I could be. But I have to go home in a couple 
 of hours. Are you getting a little homesick, George?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence. "Not if you would 
 come every day, and if mother would come some- 
 times." The hesitation told that the last words were 
 added from a sense of loyalty. 
 
 "Mother will be getting back from New York very 
 soon now. And then we'll have our little boy at home 
 again." 
 
 "Father!" The soft cheek brushed the man's face 
 caressingly, and the whisper sounded shy in his ear. " If 
 you were here always, I 'd like it better than home." 
 
 In spite of the tribute of affection to himself, George 
 descended the stairs in a saddened mood. It was the 
 first time that the little boy had revealed a sense of con- 
 trast between the home life of other little boys and his 
 I 319 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 own. George wondered if it could make little sons as 
 unhappy as their fathers. Unhappier, maybe, poor 
 little chaps. But then the time would come when they 
 could be sent away to boarding-school; and then there 
 would be college, and after that a new life of their own; 
 whereas, if you were a father you just lived always until 
 the end in a dull consciousness of your colossal mis- 
 fortune and mistake. 
 
 Neither to Rosamond nor to Graham, who had ar- 
 rived during the interval, did George's smile betray the 
 depressed state of his mind. In fact, at dinner Graham 
 quickly took him out of himself, discussing the proposed 
 legislation to reduce the hours of labor for women and 
 children in factories; it was a subject in which George 
 was interested, and Graham urged him to testify at the 
 hearing before the committee considering the bill. 
 
 "I'll look over the hospital records and see what data 
 I can produce," George promised. "I suppose in such a 
 matter you don't care for mere opinions." 
 
 "An opinion from you would be valuable," replied 
 Graham. "But of course facts to strengthen it are 
 better." 
 
 " I suppose that most of your friends and mine think 
 that labor legislation has gone far enough. Are they 
 beginning to look on you as a dangerous radical?" 
 
 " Well, they think they 're safer with me than with the 
 unknown who might fill my place. And I hope they feel 
 that when I take a position I don't do it to please any- 
 body." 
 
 "Not even me?" asked Rosamond, and Graham 
 laughed. 
 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Yes, you've pushed me a little further in this factory 
 legislation than I should otherwise have gone," he ad- 
 mitted. " But I did n't go so far until I 'd convinced 
 myself you were right. Rosamond gets her views on 
 such matters from fraternizing with the women mill- 
 workers over at Ripton. Fraternizing does n't seem the 
 word, does it? Sororizing how would that do? Any- 
 way, it 's a great thing to have a wife who does research 
 work for you." 
 
 "So in spite of family cares you've come back into the 
 world, Rosamond?" said George. "I remember there 
 was a time when you thought you never would 
 did n't want to." 
 
 "Having children makes one think after a while of 
 other mothers and other children," said Rosamond. 
 "Motoring so often through Ripton I came to notice 
 and think about the mill-mothers and mill-children 
 there. And from that I came to know some of them and 
 get interested in them; of course the hope that I might 
 influence Graham a little was an incentive. I don't 
 think he approved of my interest at first. Crusading 
 around, he called it." 
 
 "I've lived to change my mind, anyway," Graham 
 said. "And we'll see some of our ultra-conservative 
 friends live to change their minds about a good many 
 things." 
 
 Not so much a change of mind as a change of heart 
 was needed, thought George, but he let the thought lie 
 unexpressed lest it seem to bear a reflection on his wife. 
 Rosamond asked presently when Dorothy would be 
 returning from New York. 
 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I don't know exactly. She certainly won't be home 
 until after 'The World's Way' has had its first per- 
 formance. That is to be next Monday." 
 
 " I did n't know it had been dramatized. I liked the 
 book." 
 
 "Yes, the novel was very successful. I believe that 
 Hanford feels Dorothy helped him a good deal with it. 
 She hopes great things for him in the way of financial 
 returns from the play. He refused to have anything to 
 do with the dramatization was rather opposed to its 
 being done, but yielded to Dorothy's persuasion. She 
 feels it necessary to protect him from the consequences 
 of his unpractical nature." 
 
 In George's voice there was a faint note of irony, 
 tolerant but a little sad, perceptible only to Rosamond. 
 
 "Well," she said, "I am in no hurry for her to come 
 home and take away her little boy. I only wish you 
 would lend him to us oftener." 
 
 "I'm really afraid he wishes so, too. You would tell 
 me, would n't you, if you found him a bother?" 
 
 "He could never be that the nicest little boy! He 
 and Bobby get on splendidly, and Alexander shows him 
 as much respect as he shows to anybody which is not 
 saying a great deal, I must confess. And George is much 
 more considerate of David than either of David's 
 brothers. I'm always hoping that they will benefit by 
 his example, but I'm afraid he's more likely to be de- 
 moralized by them." 
 
 "It's a kind of demoralization that he does n't get at 
 home and that might do nim good." 
 
 Soon after dinner George had to take his departure. 
 [ 322 ]
 
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 "Do come again soon," Rosamond urged. "Telephone 
 any day. Ever since he learned you were coming this 
 evening your son was so excited he talked of it all 
 day, and I had to bring him up to his supper from the 
 gate where he was lying in ambush to greet you. The 
 little boy is very fond of his dad." 
 
 There was no doubt about it; the way Rosamond said 
 even such simple things, her voice and her look, went to 
 his heart; it would always be so. He stepped into his 
 motor-car and drove off down the avenue. Rosamond 
 it was his favorite among all names; it was a sweeter 
 name than Dorothy. And he never thought of her who 
 bore it, he never saw her, without knowing that for him 
 she still symbolized romance, retained still all the old 
 mystery and charm. If it was disloyal to his wife to 
 recognize this fact, at least he saw Rosamond as seldom 
 as possible, thought of her as little as possible; the rest 
 was not within his control. 
 
 How happy they were, Rosamond and Graham! 
 George thought of his mad attempt to intervene during 
 their honeymoon for the sake of Rosamond's happi- 
 ness! She had come to love her husband, that was clear; 
 she was a help to him in his work, there was a comrade- 
 ship between them of the right sort. And they had chil- 
 dren not one poor, lonely, silent, fragile boy, but 
 children who bumped one another round, shouted and 
 laughed and wrestled, fought and kissed and lived 
 already in one another's lives. 
 
 Dorothy was too busy to devote much time or any but 
 the most perfunctory affection to her little boy; the 
 child's early and unchanging preference for his father 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 and his nurse had turned her from him.. She had been 
 too busy to provide him with brothers and sisters for 
 the enriching of his life and his father's and hers. Money 
 had been a curse to her in that it had enabled her to 
 pursue her small and senseless ambitions, but and 
 George, staring ahead along the tunnel of light that his 
 car bored into the darkness, passed a harsh judgment on 
 his wife she had not deteriorated because of money; 
 she had always been selfish, never the woman he had 
 thought her spoiled to the core. Money had made her 
 defects more glaring, money had alienated husband and 
 wife from each other as poverty would never have done; 
 but not because of money only had George and Dorothy 
 found that they got on best by traveling their own 
 roads. 
 
 Dorothy's travels took her quite literally from her 
 husband at certain seasons every year. She never had 
 difficulty in finding congenially restless and opulent 
 women friends to accompany her for Lent to Palm 
 Beach, to Europe for the spring one season she tried 
 California, but did not like it. Of course, she was fre- 
 quently flying to New York, and every autumn she 
 spent from two to four weeks there, preparing for the 
 winter's gayeties. 
 
 Meanwhile George sojourned at home. Dr. Armazet 
 had retired and had left him in possession of a large prac- 
 tice and in charge of a flourishing small hospital. For a 
 man still a little under forty, George's earnings and pro- 
 fessional standing were enviable and exceptional. It had 
 been a source of pride to him that he had been able to 
 earn an income hi some degree commensurate with his 
 [ 324 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 wife's. Since apparently they had to travel separate 
 roads, it had made it possible for him to follow his course 
 with a sense of independence. 
 
 Only recently had the discovery how much their paths 
 had diverged been forced upon him. Until the seventh 
 summer after their marriage Dorothy had not invoked 
 her unwillingness to bear more children as an excuse for 
 discontinuing marital relations. That she should plead 
 it then for such an end was unreasonable ; she was unwill- 
 ing to occupy longer, except in name, the position of wife. 
 
 She made this known immediately after Sidney 
 Hanford's visit to North East Harbor. Beyond a certain 
 point George did not question her motives; it was suffi- 
 ciently obvious to him now that the friendship which he 
 had persisted in regarding as harmless had taken on a 
 deeper significance. 
 
 George had then written to Hanford the briefest of 
 notes: "Unwittingly, no doubt, you have come between 
 me and my wife. Learning that this is the fact, you will, 
 of course, discourage her infatuation by declining further 
 opportunities to promote it." 
 
 Hanford replied, "I do not recognize that there is 
 infatuation on either side. Therefore, I cannot consent 
 to have a course of action dictated to me." 
 
 George pinned together a copy of his note and Han- 
 ford's reply and showed them to his wife. A flush 
 streamed over her face as she read, and her lips curled 
 angrily. 
 
 "A pleasant way in which to write about your wife!" 
 
 " It is because I wish to retain her as my wife that I so 
 write," George responded gravely. 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 He said no more; he wrote no more; he trusted hope- 
 fully to the word "infatuation" to rankle in the young 
 man's mind and produce disillusion. Even when she an- 
 nounced to him that she was going to New York and 
 should stay for the opening night of the play founded 
 on Hanford's novel, he made no comment, and he sent 
 no further message to Hanford.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 THE NIGHT OF THE PLAY 
 
 THE trickle of people into the theater had swollen 
 now to a stream, the body of which seemed 
 dammed behind the rail while the overflow made rivu- 
 lets down the aisles and off among the stalls. The re- 
 ports of the seats as they were snapped into place were 
 sweeter music to Dorothy's ears than that furnished by 
 the orchestra. Sitting ten rows back on an aisle, she had 
 been quivering with panic, hope, joy, and expectancy. 
 How terrible if people should not come if the actors 
 had to play to an almost empty house! She had dined 
 alone in her rooms at the hotel and had been too ex- 
 cited to eat; she had come to the theater alone, wishing 
 to be unrestricted in the enjoyment of her sensations. 
 She looked on the first few persons scattered about 
 among the stalls with warm friendliness and an almost 
 abject sense of gratitude; but as by degrees the theater 
 filled and she noted the commonplace faces and heard 
 fragments of commonplace chatter, she felt irritation 
 rather than gratitude towards these people; they should 
 have come eagerly expectant, tremulous, understanding 
 the high importance of the occasion, aware of their 
 privilege, even a little awed. Oh, if they should prove 
 as stupid as they looked, most of them, and not appre- 
 ciate, not respond ! But the filling of the stalls, proceed- 
 ing at greater and greater speed, inspirited her; after 
 [ 327 ]
 
 all, there must be some intelligent people among so 
 many and it did n't so much matter whether they 
 were intelligent or not, if only they were well disposed ! 
 And of course they were; most of them had no doubt 
 read the novel and had come because they liked it. 
 
 The orchestra played lively airs, Dorothy's hands 
 grew cold, her heart was prayerful; she glanced from the 
 curtain to her watch, and from her watch to the cur- 
 tain, and she wondered where Sidney was that boyish 
 prodigy with the long eyelashes ! She knew, from other 
 sources than himself, that quite against his will, yield- 
 ing to entreaties from both manager and dramatizer, 
 he had become involved in the final preparations for 
 the production. So no doubt he was now in that magic 
 region, behind the scenes; what was he doing, how was 
 he looking and feeling ? 
 
 She had not seen him since a day in July when he had 
 bade her farewell on the wharf at North East Harbor; 
 no, although she had been in New York now for three 
 weeks, she had not seen him, had not let him know that 
 she was in town. So much had her husband's note to 
 Sidney accomplished. The poisonous word in it had 
 intimidated her; she found herself dreading to do any- 
 thing which might seem to Sidney to justify that word. 
 His invitation to come to the opening performance and 
 after it to take supper with him and a few of the com- 
 pany was forwarded to her from Boston, and she had 
 accepted it without even then letting him know where 
 she was. Now, waiting for the curtain to rise, she 
 wondered if he would find her in, the audience; she 
 wondered if the supper would celebrate a triumph, and 
 [ 328 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 she pressed her hands together and thought, "It must! 
 It must!" 
 
 And then Sidney stood beside her; he was bending, 
 laughing, and speaking into her ear, "Hello! I found 
 you, for all you've hidden yourself so modestly away! 
 Did n't you want to sit farther up front? How good you 
 were to come!" 
 
 In his presence, under the warm excitement and 
 persuasive softness of his voice, all her self-conscious- 
 ness fled; her voice was as eager as his. 
 
 "Oh, I had to come! Nothing could have kept me 
 away!" 
 
 They could not be unaware of the joy in each other's 
 eyes, they could not wish the light of any other emotion 
 to appear in their own. 
 
 "I've been wondering about you," she said, "where 
 you were, how you were feeling wondering if you 
 were as excited as I. Shall you see it from somewhere in 
 the wings?" 
 
 "No; I have a couple of seats two rows back. I wish 
 you would come and sit with me. " 
 
 "Oh!" she said, and nothing before had ever given 
 him quite such an exquisite thrill as her breathless de- 
 light. "Are you sure you want me? Beside you all 
 through?" 
 
 " I 'm sure all through ! " 
 
 She followed him to his seats. 
 
 "I've never been so thrilled over any play before," 
 she said. 
 
 "Neither have I," he answered. "And yet it isn't 
 really mine." 
 
 [ 329 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "All that is best in it will be yours." 
 
 "Some of the best in it will be yours." 
 
 They laughed, with half suppressed excitement. 
 
 Then with the turning down of the lights there was 
 a hush; the curtain rose. Dorothy's heart beat so hard 
 that she wondered if Sidney heard it. People coming 
 hi to their seats made so much noise that for a few 
 moments the words of the play were lost; then there 
 was quiet; then, oh blessed sound, there was a laugh, 
 a broad, spontaneous laugh, rolling as it were up from 
 the audience right on to the stage. Dorothy turned 
 to Sidney. "It's going! It's taking hold!" she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Pretty early to tell," he answered; but he was feel- 
 ing wonderfully buoyant and serene. His was a happy 
 situation; if the play was a success, he as the author of 
 the already popular novel must enjoy the chief glory 
 of creation; if it went badly, the burden of its failure 
 must fall upon the dramatizing drudge. It surely was 
 starting well. He could not help admiring and enjoy- 
 ing the vitality of the action that he had imagined, he 
 could not help being more pleased with the speeches 
 that were his than with those that the playwright had 
 introduced. The quivering enthusiasm and excitement 
 of the woman beside him were sweeter than the re- 
 sponsiveness of the crowd. As the act moved towards its 
 end, it tightened its grasp on the audience. The climax 
 was one of emotion rather than of comedy; a deeper 
 hush hung over the body of the house, people were look- 
 ing and listening with strained intentness. When the 
 curtain fell, applause brought actors and actresses forth 
 [ 330 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 again and again to bow their acknowledgments all 
 together, then one after another, then in groups and 
 pairs, then all together again. 
 
 "Oh, are n't you proud!" Dorothy whispered. 
 
 "I hope the demonstration 's genuine, " Sidney an- 
 swered. 
 
 "It is, of course. Can't you tell! And how proud 
 your brother and his wife must be! I suppose they're 
 here." 
 
 "No; illness at home the little girl. Nothing seri- 
 ous, but they could n't come. " 
 
 "How disappointing!" Dorothy was really thinking, 
 "How fortunate!" She had been afraid of encountering 
 the brother and his wife at supper; she was afraid that 
 they would disapprove of her presence; and now her 
 spirits soared. 
 
 "Do go behind the scenes," she urged. "They'll 
 all be wanting to see you, and you want to see them. 
 Do go just for the intermission and then bring 
 me all the gossip. " 
 
 While he was gone, Dorothy entertained herself by 
 listening to comments on the play. They were all favor- 
 able; the prevailing opinion seemed to be that it was 
 "sweet." Dorothy scorned the intonation with which 
 the word was employed, but accepted the tribute. 
 Indeed, the playwright had distilled all the magnetic 
 human qualities of the novel the sentiment, the 
 humor, the tenderness. How fine the mind in which they 
 had originated, how lovable the spirit that they reflected! 
 And mind and spirit, were they tangible, had been at 
 her very elbow, had almost brushed her shoulder, 
 I 331 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 and had looked at her out of such eager and excited 
 eyes! 
 
 Back came Sidney just before the curtain rose for the 
 second act. 
 
 "Aren't they pleased with the way it's going?" she 
 asked. "And oh, I hope you said nice things to them 
 for they 're all doing it so well, all except one or two. " 
 
 "Oh, yes, I said nice things even to the one or two. 
 The manager is really quite ecstatic predicting a 
 whole season's run. Perhaps the next act will be a 
 fizzle and then he '11 talk of taking it off next week. " 
 
 "There will be no fizzle," declared Dorothy. "I 
 feel sure that the second and third acts are even 
 better." 
 
 To the audience they seemed so. And when the cur- 
 tain fell on the third and final act, the people, instead 
 of hurrying from the theater, remained in their seats 
 and applauded and applauded. Dorothy clapped furi- 
 ously, everybody clapped, everybody except Sidney. 
 
 "Clap, why don't you?" cried Dorothy, turning to 
 him with laughter brimming in her eyes. "If you don't, 
 you'll attract suspicion to yourself." 
 
 "All right, I'll clap the actors"; and Sidney joined 
 in the applause. 
 
 "It is n't the actors they're clapping. It's the novel- 
 istthe author of 'The World's Way' that has sold 
 a hundred thousand copies! They want to see what you 
 look like. They want to hear you speak. " 
 
 "No," he declared vehemently. "No." 
 
 But his presence in the audience had been discovered; 
 people were pointing him out to one another; here and 
 [ 332 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 there friends of his were on their feet, clapping and 
 smiling and nodding at him. 
 
 "Oh, you must go up and say something," Dorothy 
 whispered. 
 
 "Well!" He spoke resignedly. "Wait for me; it 
 won't be long." 
 
 Dorothy's heart began to pound again as it had done 
 just before the rise of the curtain. She watched the 
 curtain as intently as when she had known it would go 
 up within a few seconds. Then Sidney stepped out in 
 front of it, leading John Burton, the playwright, by 
 the hand, and at once the dogged clamor of the audi- 
 ence came to its culmination in a great explosion of 
 applause. Dorothy felt herself on the verge of tears, 
 there was a lump in her throat, she was throbbing in 
 the utmost luxury of joyous excitement. Sidney, with 
 his smile and his embarrassed manner, looked appeal- 
 ingly boyish; more than ever in that moment she 
 thought of him as just a boy. 
 
 And in his halting little speech there was a boyish- 
 ness that still further won the crowd and seemed to 
 make the lump swell in Dorothy's throat. 
 
 " Mr. Burton here is so overcome by this ovation that 
 he wants me to speak for him," he said. "And I'm 
 willing this once to do it, for it gives me the oppor- 
 tunity to thank him for the pleasure I 've had in seeing 
 action and characters with which I was familiar trans- 
 ferred to the stage and made more interesting in the 
 process. And as for the actors, they have made my 
 people seem actually real to me. But I don 't know really 
 that I should thank Mr. Burton for anything. The play 
 [ 333 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 strikes me as so much better than the novel that it's 
 likely to kill the novel; and as the novel is mine and the 
 play is Mr. Burton's I think perhaps I owe him resent- 
 ment rather than gratitude. And to show my resent- 
 ment, I shall simply leave him here all alone, to speak 
 for himself. " 
 
 With that, he quickly slid off by the opening through 
 which he had made his appearance; Burton, to the de- 
 light of the audience, hastily scrambled after him. 
 
 At the little supper, where Sidney was host and 
 Burton and four members of the company were guests, 
 Dorothy received the laurel wreath. She heard Sidney 
 tell the others that he could never have written "The 
 World's Way" had it not been for her help and criti- 
 cism that if it had n't been for her, Mr. Burton 
 would have had no novel to transform so miraculously. 
 Everybody was happy, everybody congratulated every- 
 body else, champagne fizzed, sparkled and vanished; 
 it was a happy, happy evening. 
 
 At last the guests took their leave. Dorothy said 
 good-night to her host. "No, no, " he answered. "Wait 
 a moment; I'm going to take you to your hotel." 
 
 In the cab Dorothy settled herself with a sigh. 
 
 "Oh," she said, "hasn't it been a glorious evening! 
 And are n't you thrillingly happy!" 
 
 "Not really," he replied. "The evening has made 
 me quite unhappy. Can't you guess why?" 
 
 "No." But she felt a sudden tightening of her 
 nerves. 
 
 "Because it's made me know that you are the only 
 woman I could ever love. For a long time I've been 
 [ 334 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 hoping that it was n't so that I might find some one 
 else. But I never shall. You 're the only one." 
 
 "No," she said tremulously. "No." 
 
 "Yes; it's true. To have you by my side there to- 
 night what bliss it was ! What is my little triumph 
 worth ! There 's only one triumph, one success to 
 have the woman one loves." 
 
 "Oh, but you must n't feel that." Her voice was low 
 and constrained. "A man loves more than once." 
 
 "A man proposes marriage more than once, he mar- 
 ries more than once, but he loves only once," Sidney 
 replied earnestly. 
 
 She questioned the assertion in her heart, but not 
 with her lips. 
 
 "If things had been different, couldn't you have 
 loved me?" 
 
 "If things had been different how could I tell?" 
 
 " If things were different, could n't you love me 
 now?" 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 "Could n't you Dorothy?" 
 
 He felt that she was trembling. After a moment 
 came the words, breathed rather than spoken, "I 
 might." 
 
 His arm slipped round her. "Oh, let me have a kiss 
 for the sake of our love!" 
 
 Only the stopping of the cab made them draw apart. 
 At the hotel entrance they bade each other farewell. 
 There under the lights their agitation was visible to each 
 other, made each seem to the other more loving, more to 
 be loved. 
 
 [ 335 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I may see you to-morrow?" 
 
 "No." She spoke positively yet pleadingly. "No. I 
 shall go back to Boston to-morrow. You must not try to 
 see me. No. Good-bye." 
 
 She fled from him, into the hotel. But his kiss flamed 
 in her heart; even more, the kiss that she had given him 
 seemed to have carried with it her soul.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 BETWEEN HUSBAND AND WIFE 
 
 COMING in from Brookline, where he had been 
 visiting a patient, George lay back in the corner 
 of the limousine, with his eyes closed. He was tired and 
 his head ached; and so, although it was an hour in the 
 afternoon when he made it a rule to avoid the Com- 
 monwealth Avenue house, he was going home. 
 
 He found his wife's limousine waiting in front of the 
 house and her chauffeur, in bearskin coat and cap, 
 standing in well-disciplined immobility on the pave- 
 ment. Receiving a military salute from each chauffeur, 
 George passed into the vestibule. He entered the house 
 to find Richards, the butler, ready in the hall to take his 
 hat and coat, and as he surrendered them he wondered 
 how Richards managed it soft-footed, ubiquitous, 
 urbane; he could not remember ever entering the house 
 at any reasonable hour without finding the incomparable 
 servitor on hand to receive hat and coat and stick and to 
 bear them away proudly as if they were decorations. 
 
 George glanced into the drawing-room; the odor of 
 cigarette smoke blended with other fragrances less 
 pungent and more sweet. Wilson, the second man, was 
 rapidly moving chairs and tables into place and glanced 
 up in a deprecatory manner; he was one of those excel- 
 lent servants who feel that unless they have succeeded in 
 I 337 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 performing their duties by stealth they have fallen short 
 in technique. 
 
 "A party of some sort?" asked George. 
 
 Richards reappeared noiselessly to answer. 
 
 "Mrs. Brandon's Tuesday bridge, sir. We're a bit 
 tardy, sir, in restoring order." 
 
 George ascended the stairs. His wife's dressing-room 
 door was open; she was putting on her furs and turned 
 from the mirror as he paused. 
 
 "Well," she said. "What brings you home at this 
 hour?" 
 
 Mild curiosity, not annoyance, was in her tone. 
 
 "I 'm feeling rather used up and I decided to knock off 
 and rest; I think you said we were dining out to-night." 
 
 "Yes, at the Mayos'." 
 
 "That means bridge, I suppose." 
 
 "Yes. Of course, if you're not feeling well, I can 
 telephone " 
 
 "No, I share your principles against withdrawing at 
 the last moment. I shall be all right after an hour's 
 rest." 
 
 "Is there anything I can do for you?" 
 
 "Nothing, thank you. You're going out?" 
 
 "Yes, to a rehearsal of the Tableaux vivants at Copley 
 Hall. It's a bore, but I'm in for it." 
 
 "How did you fare with your bridge this afternoon? " 
 
 "Oh, I won thirty-five dollars. I would rather have 
 lost. Elsie Garnett is the worst possible loser." 
 
 "You look very handsome." 
 
 "Thank you." She did not smile; she never smiled 
 any more when he paid her such compliments. He con- 
 [ 338 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 tinned to pay them in the hope that some time she would 
 smile. 
 
 In his own room he put on a dressing-gown and lay 
 down upon the couch. He thought he could go to sleep, 
 but instead he lay musing disconsolately. What progress 
 had he made in the five months that he had been follow- 
 ing his plan for winning back his wife? By force of self- 
 control, he had shown her invariably cheerfulness and 
 good temper; he had never uttered one reproachful or 
 sarcastic word; he had never by any comment or inquiry 
 indicated distrust of her, notwithstanding her frequent 
 trips to New York. To some extent, he had sacrificed 
 industry and ambition in his persevering effort to regain 
 her companionship and love. Never before since they 
 had been married had they gone about as much together 
 as now. George accompanied his wife to dinners and 
 concerts and theaters and balls, assisted her in her enter- 
 taining, even condescended to what he regarded as the 
 sordid vulgarity of sitting at cards with ladies and play- 
 ing for stakes. He knew that these activities did not im- 
 prove his professional standing, he knew that they were 
 noted and commented on by other surgeons, and that it 
 was said of him, "Another good man spoiled by too 
 much money." He himself felt that he had not deteri- 
 orated, that if only he could regain possession of the 
 love that he had lost he could recover quickly enough 
 the lost prestige. 
 
 But he could find no encouraging answer to the ques- 
 tion, "What progress?" Dorothy was not hostile; she 
 did not treat him as if she disliked him; she was invari- 
 ably pleasant in a cool and rather studied way. Be- 
 [ 339 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 tween them there were never any disagreeable scenes. 
 But all intimacy was at an end not merely intimacy 
 of a physical sort, but intimacy of thought and speech. 
 She made no pretense of being interested in his pursuits 
 and thus far his striving to interest himself in hers 
 had been barren of result, had met only with perfunctory 
 acceptance, unresponsive tolerance. Neither he nor she 
 ever mentioned Sidney Hanford to each other. George 
 supposed that she saw Sidney whenever she went to 
 New York; she no longer gave any reason for making 
 these trips. George believed that Sidney did not come 
 to Boston to see her. He believed absolutely, too, that 
 between her and Sidney no criminal intimacy ex- 
 isted. 
 
 But she never permitted George to kiss her; and she 
 locked the door of her room at night. About that George 
 had on one occasion remonstrated. " It makes me feel as 
 one might at being put under arrest. Is n't it enough to 
 be in that situation without having the handcuffs 
 applied?" 
 
 " I simply feel that it removes the possibility of argu- 
 ment and unpleasantness and insures my privacy," 
 Dorothy answered. 
 
 The barrenness of a life of wedded celibacy seemed 
 sometimes intolerable. Was it worth while to maintain 
 it? He had been putting that question to himself with 
 increasing frequency. If he had ever been able to detect 
 a sign of softening in his wife, however momentary, .an 
 indication of affection, however slight, it would have in- 
 spired him with hopefulness. That quality was being 
 drained away. With it was departing warmth of feeling 
 [ 840 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 for his wife; he had begun to realize that it was merely 
 a matter of time before his indifference to her should 
 match her indifference to him. Why should he not ter- 
 minate the miserable relationship and get what pleasure 
 and satisfaction he could out of life? He thought a good 
 deal about that question; pessimism and passion to- 
 gether tempted him. But sanity triumphed over 
 moods; he knew that his two chief sources of pleasure 
 and satisfaction were his work and his son. What chance 
 of retaining these would he have if he involved himself 
 in scandal? Besides, sentiment held more than a corner 
 of his heart. He felt that he must live straight if he was 
 to be a good father. 
 
 So, if he failed in his constant, patient effort, and 
 he was, indeed, beginning to despair of success, it 
 would be his duty to play a part before the world, before 
 his household, before his child. Kindness without affec- 
 tion, gentleness without love, a continuous compromis- 
 ing of interests and ideas with no compensating inter- 
 course of spirit how long could a man keep it up ! 
 
 George thought of the little George and answered, 
 "For life." 
 
 And when he had thus answered the question, new 
 strength flowed into his heart; he must n't stop trying, 
 he must n't let Dorothy ever think that he had ceased to 
 care for her, he must n't cease to care for her. After all, 
 there were memories enough; dwelling on them could 
 not fail to reawaken tenderness. 
 
 The sound of his boy's voice came to him up the 
 stairs. 
 
 "Hello, George!" he called. 
 I 341 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 A squeal of joy was the answer. 
 
 "Dad! Oh, dad! Where are you?" There was the 
 scamper of excited feet along the hall. 
 
 "Well, old man! What have you been up to? Your 
 cheeks are as red as apples and as cold as snowballs!" 
 George snuggled the boy close to him on the couch. 
 
 "I've been skating; I skated all the way round the 
 pond in the Public Garden, and I did n't fall down once! 
 When will you come to see me skate, dad?" 
 
 "Perhaps to-morrow." 
 
 "It's lots more fun doing things if you're there, dad." 
 
 "And it's lots of fun for me to be there when you're 
 doing things, old man." 
 
 "My feet felt awfully funny when I took off my 
 skates. Do yours always feel like that when you Ve been 
 skating, dad?" 
 
 "They always used to. And I remember how my 
 stomach used to feel after I'd been skating, too." 
 
 The boy gave a chuckle of sympathetic appreciation. 
 
 "Is n't it lucky it's about your supper-time, old man? 
 You could n't wait an extra half -hour for your supper 
 to-night, could you?" 
 
 "I could if I knew there would be ice-cream." 
 
 George the elder laughed. "We'll come along and get 
 you washed up, and then we'll go down and see." 
 
 He sat at the table while the little boy ate his supper. 
 And behold, there was ice-cream! 
 
 "And you did n't have to wait for it," George said. 
 "You're a pretty lucky fellow, it seems to me." 
 
 For the sake of argument the young George was dis- 
 posed to pick flaws in his luck. 
 [ 342 ]
 
 " Maybe if I 'd had to wait I 'd have been hungrier and 
 then I could have eaten more." 
 
 " And then you 'd have had a tummy-ache. And there 
 would n't have been much luck about that, would 
 there?" 
 
 After tucking the boy into bed and getting his good- 
 night kiss, George returned to his room. It was not yet 
 time to dress : he drew a chair up in front of the 
 blazing wood fire and sat in contented idleness while 
 Wilson moved softly about behind him, laying out his 
 clothes. Marriage had n't been such a failure when it 
 had presented him with that boy. He could look for- 
 ward along the years and see the boy developing, grow- 
 ing to be more and more a companion. Life would get 
 happier as he grew older, not more sad. 
 
 Presently he heard his wife enter her room and he 
 knew that he must not idly meditate and dream any 
 longer. Preparation for action was required of him now 
 valiant action among lady-killing men. 
 
 It was after midnight when he and Dorothy returned 
 home. They ascended the stairs silently together; hi 
 front of her door Dorothy said, " Good-night." 
 
 "Dorothy!" 
 
 The note of strained appeal in his voice arrested her, 
 and she turned. He stood with one hand pressed against 
 the door jamb above his head. 
 
 "Dorothy, are you never again to be my wife?" 
 
 "You know what my wishes are what my deter- 
 mination is." 
 
 "You won't change?" 
 
 "I can't." 
 
 [ 343 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "If I don't ask now for more than a little affection 
 the display of it 
 
 "So that you can kiss me take me in your arms?" 
 
 "Yes. I love you." 
 
 Distress was visible in her gray eyes. Her fingers 
 plucked nervously at the pearls of her necklace. Then 
 she exclaimed, 
 
 "Oh, George, why don't you divorce me? I know I'm 
 not a good wife. You 'd be happier to be free of me. We 
 should both be happier." 
 
 He grew pale. 
 
 "But I don't intend to divorce you, Dorothy. And 
 neither do I intend to give you any grounds for divorce." 
 
 "Most men in your position would feel justified in 
 consoling themselves with other women. I should not 
 blame you." 
 
 " I want no other woman than my wife." 
 
 "I'm sorry, George; I'm truly sorry. I realize how 
 deeply I've wronged you how I am wronging you. 
 But I can only let you recover your freedom; if you 
 reject that " She made a gesture of hopelessness. 
 
 "I do. My only weapons are patience and love. 
 Good-night, my dear." 
 
 He went into his room and a moment later he heard 
 the key turn in her door. He thought that she might 
 have spared him that to-night, at least. 
 
 But, indeed, this night she had locked herself in as a 
 protection against herself even more than against him. 
 It was the first night in a long time that he had touched 
 her heart, and her first impulse had been to show a 
 kinder feeling by omitting her usual precaution. Then 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 she felt sure that he would take it as a sign of relenting, 
 perhaps even of surrender and if he should come to 
 her in the dark She did not dare to trust herself; she 
 locked the door.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 BETWEEN MOTHER AND CHILD 
 
 Ethe spring Dorothy decided that she would not 
 jpen her house at North East Harbor. For one 
 reason, she felt so dependent now upon motoring that 
 she did not care to go to a place where she would be 
 deprived of the recreation; the inhospitality of Mount 
 Desert Island to automobiles seemed to her archaic and 
 oppressive. Moreover, most of the friends with whom 
 she played bridge and exchanged elaborate entertain- 
 ments had houses on the North Shore; there was more 
 social life and gayety there than at North East, where 
 people were given somewhat ostentatiously, as Dorothy 
 now thought, to the cultivation of simplicity. And she 
 felt that she must not allow any intermission in the dis- 
 tractions and excitements with which she endeavored to 
 beguile her mind. Swift motion had become a necessity 
 to her; without the daily spin hi her motor-car she suf- 
 fered intolerably from restlessness. She tried desperately 
 to fortify herself against the possibility of having time 
 in which to think about her life whither it was tend- 
 ing; she must have amusement always; speed and people 
 and dress must furnish the necessary cycle; she must 
 arrange not merely to avoid loneliness, but to evade 
 those quiet intimacies that bring the real self to the 
 surface. 
 
 The reason that she gave her friends for taking a 
 [ 346 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 house at Manchester was that she wanted to be near 
 George so that he might run down from Boston now 
 and then for a night or for Sunday. Secretly she ac- 
 knowledged another and more potent motive for thus 
 deserting North East and taking up her abode in a more 
 accessible spot. Now that Sidney Hanford could no 
 longer make visits to her house, she must not remove 
 herself to a point from which it would be difficult if not 
 impossible to arrange frequent meetings with him. 
 
 The first kiss ,had not been the last. Each meeting 
 set the two aflame. On the long journey to New York, 
 when the train was drawing into the station, Dorothy 
 found herself quivering, shivering with eagerness and 
 delight; meanwhile, Sidney pacing by the gate had 
 already her fair face before his eyes. And when the gate 
 slid back and the passengers from the train began to 
 stream through, Sidney, tiptoeing, swept the faces with 
 eager gaze, and when he saw Dorothy in the distance 
 and caught her vivid smile, thrills of feeling moved in 
 him like wind in the grass, and he stood at the grating 
 and thought how wrong it was that he should have to 
 wait for her to come to him that he could not run 
 even those few steps forward to greet the woman he 
 loved. 
 
 They had cast aside all discretion; they lunched to- 
 gether, they dined together, they drove in the Park to- 
 gether; and in the spring of the year they took short 
 motor trips up the Hudson. Sidney now operated a 
 motor-car, which was serviceable in providing them 
 with opportunities to be alone together and unob- 
 served. He termed his prosperity preposterous. His 
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 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 novel was selling in prodigious numbers; the play 
 founded on it was the success of the season. The new 
 novel, for which the publisher was clamoring, was nearly 
 finished; Sidney had read it piecemeal to Dorothy, and 
 she was sanguine of its merit. "Is n't it absurd for me 
 to be making so much money!" Sidney said. Dorothy 
 felt a sort of motherly tenderness for him when he con- 
 fided the amount of his earnings to her showed such 
 naive and humorous delight. How funny he was to 
 regard such sums as monumental! 
 
 "Oh, but we must n't go on like this!" she often said. 
 
 "Oh, but we can't stop! We can't stop!" he replied. 
 
 She did not always have to go to New York to see 
 him. Sometimes their rendezvous was in Providence, 
 sometimes in Worcester, sometimes in one of the small 
 towns nearer Boston. Never, in the euphemistic current 
 phrase, was there anything wrong in their conduct. Of 
 course, the time came when Sidney urged that they run 
 away together. She refused but she knew that her 
 refusal must be due chiefly to lack of courage, for she 
 felt in that passionate moment that should he propose to 
 make her his mistress she would not resist. Because he 
 did not propose it she loved him with a greater humility. 
 She felt that he was chivalrous not to tempt her weak- 
 ness. 
 
 She told him that she was not the person he thought 
 her; that if he knew her as she was he must despise her. 
 For instance, she was not a good mother. Her little boy 
 seemed less fond of her than of his nurse and his French 
 governess ; and certainly he had much more affection for 
 his father than for her. It must be her fault that it was 
 [ 348 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 so. She knew she did not care as she should for the child. 
 The fact that he liked other persons better than herself 
 had chilled her feeling for him. She had not reared him 
 herself, she had been unwilling to submit to the trouble, 
 and had been interested in other things; now, when she 
 wanted to be motherly with him, she did not know how 
 to be. Oh, Sidney did not realize it, but she was a horrid 
 person; she must be when even her own child did not 
 like her, and when that fact affected her attitude towards 
 her own child. Perhaps she would have been a better 
 mother if the child had been a girl; she understood girls 
 better than little boys and could have taken more inter- 
 est from the start but her husband had already 
 seized upon the boy, to mould him and develop him; 
 had taken him out of her hands. She was n't blaming 
 her husband; after all, it was her fault; she had n't been 
 a good mother in the first place. 
 
 Her self -accusations merely stirred Sidney to confute 
 them, her pathos inspired him to reassure her. He 
 knew what a warm human person she was ; he knew that 
 under happier auspices no woman would have been a 
 better mother. She found that she loved to be reassured 
 and consoled by him. And to him she poured out all the 
 thoughts that at other times she strove so hard to 
 repress. What a useless, empty life she led ! There was 
 not one real thing in it a daily routine of inanities. 
 She was n't of use to her husband, to her child, to any 
 one. "To me!" cried Sidney. And again how sweetly 
 was she reassured and consoled! Yes, she felt, there had 
 entered one real thing into her life this love. He had 
 drawn from her she would not say inspiration, she 
 [ 349 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 would not dare to dignify anything she could give with 
 that grand word suggestion, anyway, stimulus; and 
 it was interchangeable; it flowed from him to her as well 
 as from her to him. 
 
 So quickly did stolen hours steal to an end! So brief 
 were the meetings ! So long and dreary the return home ! 
 Oh, if only fate had been kind to them that day when 
 first they met, had whispered to them the truth about 
 themselves, how happy now they might be! 
 
 Sidney grew more urgent, more insistent. "If you can 
 make nothing of the life you 're leading, if your little boy 
 is alienated from you and you can't reach him any more, 
 if he 's growing up to be his father's child and not yours 
 has duty so powerful a claim? If a mother can't in- 
 fluence a boy in his early years, she can never influence 
 him; he can never really be hers. Must you go on, from 
 a sense of duty, in a life you abhor a life that recog- 
 nizes duty in only the most trifling obligations, expresses 
 it in the most shallow observances? Give it all up, give 
 up riches and friends and everything; come with me." 
 
 "Oh, it's utterly impossible." 
 
 "It's not impossible to put everything you have into 
 trust for your son. It's not impossible to sail with me 
 to-morrow from New York. We could live in the South 
 Seas, we could live anywhere, we could spend a year or 
 two going round the world. Would n't it be filling your 
 deepest duty to yourself to cast off a life that has been 
 a failure and a futility? You ought to have children 
 who would love you, and whom you would love." 
 
 "No. I'm not a good mother." 
 
 "You would be you could be in ptber circuni- 
 [ 850 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 stances. You would be a good wife the best in 
 other circumstances. Don't you know what a good wife 
 you would be to me?" 
 
 "Oh, but I might n't be. The help I am to you now 
 perhaps just because I 'm not all yours you idealize 
 me and so I help you a little. And if I were all yours, 
 you would very soon cease to idealize me. And when 
 that happened I 'd be of use to you no longer." 
 
 "It would n't happen." 
 
 "It always does." 
 
 "I should give my whole life to proving the con- 
 trary." 
 
 She fell back on the old formula: "We must n't talk 
 like this; we must n't have such thoughts." 
 
 But when the time came for them to part, she re- 
 sponded to the passion of his embrace, of his kisses. 
 
 When she arrived at Manchester that evening, she 
 found a letter from Rosamond Rappallo, asking if she 
 would not let little George come to Sunset Acres for a 
 visit a long visit. "Bobby says he wants him to stay 
 at least a month and so do I," she wrote. "If you 
 would make us a visit at the same time, how delighted I 
 should be ! But I suppose there is no chance of that 
 such a busy person ! Anyway, could n't you motor up 
 from Manchester with little George and spend a day and 
 a night, if more is impossible? The sooner you and he 
 can come, the better; he may have the fun of seeing 
 the Red and Blue armies; we are quite likely to be 
 in the thick of the fighting." 
 
 This reference was to the mimic war operations in 
 which troops of the regular army and the militia were 
 [ 351 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 soon to be engaged. The Red army, marching from a 
 point east of Worcester, was to try to enter Boston; the 
 Blue army was charged with the defense of the city. 
 Rosamond mentioned in her letter that Graham had 
 been appointed to command a cavalry corps of the 
 Blues. 
 
 Little George's joy and excitement when he was being 
 prepared for the expedition were not to be restrained. 
 He danced about the house, he jumped, he jigged on one 
 foot; such a display of animal spirits in his mother's pres- 
 ence was unwonted. Then in the midst of his excite- 
 ment sad news was broken to him ; he came running into 
 his mother's dressing-room, crying, "Is n't Annie going 
 too, mother? Isn't Ma'm'selle?" At confirmation of 
 the report that Annie and Ma'm'selle were to remain at 
 home, all his joyousness vanished, his face clouded over. 
 "Are n't you satisfied to go with me, George? " Dorothy 
 asked. Oh, yes, but he knew he should have a good time 
 at Aunt Rose's house, and so he did n't want to get 
 homesick and have to come home. And he knew he 
 should n't ever get homesick if Annie and Ma'm'selle 
 were there, too. 
 
 "I count for nothing with him," Dorothy thought. 
 "I am nothing to him except an ogre." 
 
 She did not pass the night at Rosamond's; she 
 stopped only for luncheon, and after it she bade her son 
 good-bye. To do it she interrupted his play ; the kiss 
 he gave her was hasty, unemotional, cheerful, and he 
 scampered off light-hearted. 
 
 Not so did Dorothy depart. With her it was an axiom 
 of life that she could not love any one who did not love 
 [ 352 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 her. She felt that she would love her child if only he 
 would permit it, but his clear unconcern turned her 
 yearning impulse to resentment. Oh, if she had only 
 made him love her as a baby ! Then he would be loving 
 her now. But there was no sympathy or understanding 
 between them. She did not know how to reach him, 
 how to pet him and play with him and love him. She did 
 not always have the desire. His nervousness annoyed 
 her, his twitching and jumping about; she could not 
 bear a nervous child. Yet he was hers, and she longed to 
 have him fill the place in her heart and life that a 
 woman's child should hold. Longing and resentment 
 and despair from one mood to another she passed ; 
 scorn of herself and hatred of the life she had for years 
 been leading flung about her soul stormy clouds through 
 which the thought of Sidney shone steadily like a star. 
 Only in relation to him could she see herself now as a 
 normal woman, a woman whose life might be a blessing 
 instead of a curse. 
 
 In the little boy's absence, all the moods that the 
 thought of the child inspired longing, resentment, 
 and despair seemed rushing to some culmination ; she 
 thought she must be going insane. Five days after that 
 on which she had bade him good-bye, she took again the 
 long motor trip to Sunset Acres. Driving up the avenue 
 to the house, she saw George and the two older Rappallo 
 boys at play in the orchard. She waved to them; when 
 she got out of the car, George came running up, his face 
 full of apprehension and distress, and without waiting 
 for her to speak, cried out, "Oh, mother, mother, you've 
 not come to take me home!" 
 
 [ 353 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Dorothy stooped and kissed him, but in that moment 
 affection was dead in her heart. "No, George," she 
 said, " I 've not come to take you home. Go back to your 
 play." 
 
 To Rosamond she recounted with a laugh the manner 
 of his greeting, and Rosamond, detecting nothing be- 
 neath the surface, laughed, too. 
 
 "They're all so excited there's no holding them," she 
 said. "The guns have been booming all the morning 
 over towards Wroxby. A regiment of Blues passed an 
 hour ago; I've told the boys that we may be surrounded 
 by the enemy before night, and that father is out fight- 
 ing hi defense of home and fireside, and though they 
 know that is n't literally true, it 's true enough to give 
 them the greatest thrills they 've ever had. They climb 
 one tree after another, trying to get a glimpse of the 
 battle." 
 
 "Of course a mere mother can't compete with any 
 such attraction," said Dorothy. 
 
 But it made little difference what the excuse might be. 
 The boy's behavior was entirely in keeping with his 
 general attitude towards her. So again was his eager- 
 ness that afternoon to be done with the tiresome busi- 
 ness of saying good-bye.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 O GLORIOUS, DECISIVE NOON! 
 
 THAT night Dorothy played bridge until a late hour; 
 she slept until a late hour the next morning. When 
 she awoke it was with a consciousness of some depress- 
 ing occurrence; then she remembered the effect produced 
 upon her by her little boy's greeting and farewell. A 
 black melancholy settled upon her spirits. Her child 
 might as well be a changeling. Soon he would be going to 
 school, and the slight hold that she had upon his interest 
 would be still further loosened. And then, if his father 
 carried out his plans, little George would go away to 
 boarding-school, and that would complete the alienation. 
 After that they would be strangers to each other, for the 
 rest of their lives. Oh, if she had only taken advantage 
 of those first few, baby years! Her life in and for her 
 child was over before it had fairly been begun. And the 
 only child that she should ever have! Worthless, useless 
 woman that she was! 
 
 She could not lie all day bemoaning her wretchedness. 
 Sunshine drew her out of doors; the scents and colors of 
 the garden were a temporary opiate. The sea, placid and 
 blue, stretched out from the foot of her cliff, against 
 which its bosom heaved slumberously. It was no day for 
 sails, but little motor-boats were streaking along the 
 shore and a canoe with barearmed paddlers dipped 
 gracefully in the soft-rolling waves. On the beach 
 [ 355 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 beyond the cliff bathers were scattered; Dorothy deter- 
 mined to join them. 
 
 A few strokes in the cold water had a tonic effect so 
 far as her body was concerned. She no longer felt list- 
 less and languid. Walking up from the bath-house she 
 decided that she must get some tennis or some golf in 
 the afternoon ; she would call up Marion Wales. 
 
 1 Her heart seemed to stop beating, and then it began 
 to pound with a violence that robbed her whole body of 
 strength and left her faint and trembling. There on the 
 driveway at the side of the house stood Sidney's motor- 
 car. The New York number on it identified it for her. 
 Still faint and trembling she came out upon the drive- 
 way just as Sidney made his appearance round the cor- 
 ner of the house. 
 
 "Hello!" he called. "They told me you'd gone down 
 to the beach; I was just starting out to look for you." 
 Then, when he drew near, he said in a low, excited voice, 
 "Take me where no one will see us where I can talk 
 with you." 
 
 She led him down among the rocks to a cleft in which 
 they could be overlooked by no one, except from the sea. 
 And now, except for boats far out, the sea was deserted. 
 At once he had her, unresisting, in his arms. 
 
 "I had to come," he said. "I could n't endure it any 
 longer, away from you. Yesterday at noon I left New 
 York. I drove my motor simply to keep mind and 
 hands occupied. Oh, my dear, my dear, we can't go on 
 living as we are. Come away with me to-day now! 
 I've come for you I've come for you, my love!" 
 
 She felt the quivering tension of his strong arms about 
 [ 356 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 her; the passionate trembling murmur of his voice in her 
 ear drew from her all the will to resist. In its place 
 sprang to full stature passion equal to his own. 
 
 "Yes," she said, and she gave herself up to a delicious 
 ecstasy of weakness in that straining, quivering em- 
 brace. "Yes. I will come." 
 
 They mounted the path up from the rocks, clinging 
 each to the other's hand, looking each into the other's 
 face with radiant eyes. His love for her, her love for him, 
 wiped out all sense of guilt. The serene blue sky brooded 
 over them with its blessing; when they entered the 
 woodland path, the thrushes in the trees strewed the 
 leafy aisles with music of rejoicing; when they emerged 
 into the garden, the flowers lifted up their faces to shine 
 upon them. O glorious, decisive noon! 
 
 Sidney was ready to crank the engine of his motor at 
 once. 
 
 "Oh, heedless Lochinvar!" She laughed. "I must be 
 the practical one; that I see. Now, listen. You will 
 lunch with me, and will hear that I have to go to 
 Boston for the night, and as you are going, too, you will 
 offer me transportation. I shall have a bag packed, and 
 we shall take our departure in good order. Is n't that 
 wise?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, admiring her coolness. "My one idea 
 was to escape with you as soon as possible. It has been 
 my one idea, driving all the way from New York." 
 
 "How did you know I would come?" 
 
 "I did n't know but I felt you would, I hoped you 
 would." 
 
 "And if I had n't?" 
 
 [ 357 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Then I should have gone away forever. My mind 
 was all made up. It had to be the one thing or the other. 
 Oh, how wonderful that you should have given me hap- 
 piness ! " 
 
 "Oh, Sidney, it will be wonderful to be happy!" 
 
 She looked at him demurely at luncheon, talking of 
 her summer amusements, questioning him about his 
 writing. The last meal that she should ever eat under 
 the solemn auspices of Richards well, she would send 
 him and the others substantial tokens of her kind 
 remembrance. 
 
 After luncheon, while her maid was packing a bag, she 
 looked about her room to be sure that she should leave 
 behind nothing that she especially prized. On her 
 dressing-table in a silver frame was a photograph of her 
 little boy; Dorothy slipped the picture into the bag. 
 She had an odd momentary feeling that she would like 
 to take a photograph of her husband, too; after all, he 
 had been kind to her. Then she smiled at the absurd 
 impulse. 
 
 She had no more regret at separating herself finally 
 and forever from her old life than has a snake at slough- 
 ing off its old skin. Later, perhaps, she might awaken 
 to remorse, but now her mind floated in a sea of eager, 
 exultant happiness; she saw herself flying over the 
 world with her lover, nestling close to his side. 
 
 So, indeed, she soon was flying. She was aware that 
 she had passed out of the gate for the last time. They 
 were speeding along the road, facing the world together 
 a hostile world it would be, but what matter since 
 they faced it together? 
 
 [ 358 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "I looked at the clock in the hall when I came down 
 the stairs," she said. "It was exactly three o'clock when 
 we began our new life." 
 
 Presently she asked, "Where are we going, Sidney?" 
 
 He gave her a laughing glance. "I'm taking the only 
 road I know. Back to Boston. Then I thought we'd 
 turn off and make for Worcester. We can pass the night 
 there and get an early start for New York in the morn- 
 ing. And then what shall it be Europe, Africa, South 
 America?" 
 
 "Europe first. Oh, Sidney, does it frighten you to 
 think what we 've done? " 
 
 "It makes me wildly happy. I feel that in the words 
 of the song, the world is all at my feet." 
 
 " To-morrow, Sidney, do you think we shall feel it is 
 all on our backs?" 
 
 "Shoulder to shoulder, aren't we strong enough to 
 bear it, Dorothy?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, when you speak like that!" 
 
 "You did n't doubt that I should speak like that?" 
 
 "I hoped you would. But it frightened me suddenly 
 to think that coming to you in this way I bring you so 
 little, Sidney, and I take you from so much ! " 
 
 "You bring me your help and your love; you take me 
 from nothing that I value in this world." 
 
 "Oh, Sidney, is that true?" 
 
 "Yes, it's true. And let us not ask any more morbid 
 questions. We've done it with open eyes and a whole 
 heart and we 're glad, Dorothy, we 're glad." 
 
 With his free hand he gripped and held her fingers 
 tight, and she answered to the pressure. 
 [ 359 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Yes," she said, "we're glad." 
 
 And yet, though they spoke thus and clung to each 
 other, each wondered what might be the other's thoughts 
 and feared to know. 
 
 Sidney drove fast drove truly as one fleeing. When 
 they sped by other automobiles on the road, Dorothy 
 dropped her head, drew the veil more thickly over her 
 face, and felt nearly every time that in spite of her pre- 
 cautions she had been identified. "Why should I 
 care?" she thought. "By to-morrow or the next day 
 every one will know." But that impulse to duck and 
 dodge and hide it was hateful. How much better 
 when flight should be an accomplished fact, and she 
 should have that impulse no longer, but instead of it the 
 impulse and the strength to hold her head high and defy 
 the world ! 
 
 Through Beverly and Salem and Lynn they sped, and 
 came out upon the road across the Lynn marshes. Here 
 upon this straight and level stretch, Sidney gave his car 
 full speed. The sun, standing over the distant border of 
 woods, shot with golden gleams the pools and rivulets 
 that fluttered by; its beams glanced from the shoulders 
 of the haycocks. The salt wind dampened Dorothy's 
 face under her veil. Never before had she been driven 
 so fast. The sense of peril in such wild rushing through 
 space exhilarated her and set free from its last tether the 
 spirit of recklessness. After all, what if anything did 
 happen? If they were killed the next moment, it might 
 be as well. 
 
 But they came safely to the end of the marshes and 
 entered at a reduced speed the outlying suburbs of the 
 [ 360 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 city. In a few minutes more Sidney was steering his way 
 through mean and crowded streets. 
 
 "I don't know why," he said, "but I feel that I want 
 to get you out of Boston as quickly as possible." 
 
 She shared his desire and drew her veil again closely 
 over her face. 
 
 He had to stop at a garage to replenish his supply of 
 gasoline. While they waited a newsboy passed; Dorothy 
 called to him. With the newspaper in her hand she 
 turned to Sidney and smiled. 
 
 "I wanted to be sure they haven't got the news 
 about us yet," she said. 
 
 Sidney laughed. "They could n't possibly have it." 
 
 She opened the newspaper and the next moment gave 
 a low exclamation of pain. 
 
 "Oh, Sidney! How frightful !" 
 
 He looked over her shoulder, incredulous. 
 
 "No, nothing about us. Graham Rappallo Rosa- 
 mond's husband his horse rolled on him ; he 's dying." 
 
 The gasoline tank was filled, the man cranked the 
 engine, but Sidney waited to let Dorothy read on. In a 
 moment she passed the newspaper to him. 
 
 It had been the one serious casualty of the early 
 morning battle between the Reds and the Blues. Lead- 
 ing a cavalry charge Graham had spurred his horse to a 
 reckless jump over a wall, where the ground fell away on 
 the farther side ; alighting, the animal had stumbled and 
 fallen, crushing his rider beneath him. Graham had 
 been taken unconscious to his house near by; his skull 
 was fractured, and he had other injuries of which the 
 full seriousness was as yet undetermined. 
 [ 361 ]
 
 THE WOMEN. WE MARRY 
 
 "Too bad." Sidney returned the newspaper to Doro- 
 thy and threw in the clutch; they moved on. "I re- 
 member his wife; you know I met her the day that I 
 first saw you, Dorothy." 
 
 She was silent; tears came suddenly to her eyes. 
 
 "My little boy is there," she said at last. "Oh, 
 Sidney, I must go to Rosamond." 
 
 "Now!" Remonstrance more than question was in 
 his voice. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Sidney, now. If you knew how Rosamond 
 came to me in London when my father died ! She may 
 need me, she may want me and with my little boy 
 there ! Anyway, I must go to her now, Sidney." 
 
 They had turned into Commonwealth Avenue; Sidney 
 stopped his car. They looked at each other with distress 
 in their eyes. 
 
 "How can I let you go, Dorothy!" 
 
 " How can I stay away ! And how could I go off now 
 with you, Sidney, and be happy thinking of Rosa- 
 mond!" 
 
 "Surely you can do no good by going to her!" 
 
 "Perhaps not, and yet I must go." 
 
 "Dorothy, dearest, don't you love me still?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Sidney, I do love you. But don't you see 
 that I must go?" 
 
 "I will take you wherever you say. Only tell me 
 again that you love me." 
 
 "I love you." 
 
 "And this this interruption isn't going to make 
 any difference any real difference?" 
 
 "Oh, no. It's only a postponement, Sidney." 
 [ 362 1
 
 ^ WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Yes, only a postponement. Let it be a short one 
 oh, such a short one!" 
 
 "And now we must go on. I will tell you the road." 
 
 He drove now at reduced speed while he urged her to 
 make plans. If she found she could be of no service, of 
 no comfort, what should she do? Would n't she simply 
 take the child back to Manchester and then embark 
 immediately upon a second flight? He would meet her 
 in Boston or wherever she should determine. 
 
 "Oh, no," she said. "I can make no plans. If 
 Graham is dying, I could n't go away. I should have to 
 stay and try to be of help to Rosamond. No, Sidney, we 
 can make no plans now. We must be content to wait." 
 
 "I could wait contentedly," said Sidney, "but I am 
 afraid now that you will never come." 
 
 The foreboding in his voice oppressed her. 
 
 "Why should I not?" she asked. 
 
 But in spite of her brave question, into her, too, the 
 spirit of foreboding had entered. 
 
 Silence fell ; they came out into the country again. At 
 last Sidney spoke. "I shall wait in Boston for word 
 from you no, I shall wait in Boston for you. Write to 
 me at the Touraine. I shall wait, whether it's days or 
 weeks or months." 
 
 "I will write," she answered in her low voice. "I will 
 write to you soon." 
 
 They came to a lonely bit of road, with neither houses 
 nor travelers in sight. Sidney stopped the automobile, 
 clasped Dorothy in his arms and kissed her, murmur- 
 ing, "Oh, my own! Forever my own! Oh, remember, 
 dearest, nothing can ever part us!" 
 [ 363 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 She begged him to cease. "Some one may come." 
 
 "But kiss me, dearest, one kiss." 
 
 He reproached her for a lack of warmth in it when it 
 was bestowed. 
 
 "Oh, I can't help it, Sidney." Her voice broke. "I 
 am thinking of Rosamond." 
 
 He bowed his head. "I'm selfish. Try to forgive 
 me." 
 
 Arriving at the top of a hill, they came suddenly 
 upon a view of an armed encampment tents pitched 
 in meadows, soldiers drilling, and sentries posted by 
 the roadside. These halted the automobile. "No pass- 
 ing through the lines," said one of the khaki-clad 
 young men. 
 
 Sidney glanced at the blue band on his hat. 
 
 "This lady is a friend of Mrs. Rappallo's. Mr. Rap- 
 pallo was dangerously hurt this morning, as you prob- 
 ably know. She must go to her at once." 
 
 "Then I think it can be arranged." 
 
 The sentry accompanied them to the camp head- 
 quarters where, after making a brief explanation, they 
 obtained a pass from the commanding officer. As they 
 proceeded on their way the sound of cannonading came 
 to their ears, and just before reaching the Rappallo 
 place they encountered another outpost of the Blues. 
 Sidney displayed the pass and sped on. 
 
 He drove through the gateway of Sunset Acres and up 
 the avenue. He stopped his car, caught Dorothy's 
 hand, and said, "Don't keep me waiting write to me 
 come to me soon ! " 
 
 Dorothy pressed his hand and stepped from the car. 
 [ 364 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 Her husband stood on the piazza before her. In the 
 sudden shock of the encounter she turned white and 
 faint. "George!" she said, and could say no more; he 
 met her on the steps, took her hand, and glanced beyond 
 her at Sidney. With a bitter sense of shame and defeat, 
 Sidney pulled the lever; as he made the turn round the 
 circle of grass he saw George Brandon with his arm 
 about Dorothy helping her to mount the steps.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 THE WHEEL HAS COME FULL CIRCLE 
 
 I DID N'T know you were here, George." 
 Dorothy, taking off her veil in the hall, struggled 
 to regain self-control. 
 
 "Rosamond telephoned for me at six this morning. I 
 have been here ever since." 
 
 "Will he die?" she whispered. 
 
 "I don't know. I had to trepan; it's very seri- 
 ous." 
 
 "Poor Rosamond!" 
 
 "She's brave one of the bravest. But I'm glad 
 you've come; I think you can help her." 
 
 "I felt I must, at least, come and take George 
 away " 
 
 " You might take away the other children, too, if she 
 will consent. The less excitement hi and about the 
 house now the better. If we can get through to-night, 
 with these damnable guns going off " 
 
 Rosamond came down the stairs, and Dorothy went 
 to her with outstretched arms. 
 
 George left them alone together; they sat side by side 
 on a sofa, clinging to each other, talking in low voices, 
 now and then brushing away tears. 
 
 "I felt I must hurry to you, Rosamond," Dorothy 
 said. "I wanted to help in any way I could and I 
 did n't want to let my child be a burden to you for an- 
 [ 366 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 other minute. Would n't it truly be more comfortable 
 for you if I took him away to-night?" 
 
 "Oh, no, Dorothy; stay with me to-night!" Rosa- 
 mond entreated. "Stay with me, do." 
 
 So Dorothy stayed; she shared Rosamond's bed and 
 'during much of the night held her in her arms. Early in 
 the evening the sound of the guns ceased ; presently de- 
 tachments of infantry hurried by along the road in the 
 moonlight, and a field battery rumbled past. After that 
 there was peace and quiet out of doors. Not until the 
 dawn was the sound of the guns again heard, and then 
 it was faint and distant; the Blues had been in retreat all 
 night, the Reds had advanced several miles to a new 
 position of attack. 
 
 But the stillness of the night only emphasized by con- 
 trast the uneasy activities, the disquieting noises within. 
 Nurses tiptoeing through the halls, movements of per- 
 sons in another room, the delirious babble that rose 
 often to a shout Rosamond's closed door did not bar 
 these sounds. When the delirium was at its worst, 
 Dorothy clasped Rosamond more tightly, held her 
 hands, and did not speak. Rosamond lay trembling, 
 silent. At last quiet fell upon the house. Then Rosa- 
 mond clutched Dorothy's arm and said, "Oh, Dorothy, 
 you don't suppose he's died?" 
 
 "No, Rosamond, dear, no. I will see George and tell 
 you what he says." 
 
 In her dressing-gown and slippers she moved along the 
 hall and entered George's room. He was lying on the 
 bed fully dressed; he was awake. In reply to her ques- 
 tion he said, "Graham is sleeping now. His pulse is 
 [ 367 1
 
 stronger. Tell Rosamond she can feel hopeful; let her 
 go to sleep." 
 
 Dorothy returned with the message. 
 
 "Oh, I will try," said Rosamond. "Thank you, 
 Dorothy, dear." She added after a moment, "If I were 
 only like the boys! Poor little chaps, they've been so 
 frightened all day; they've cried so hard. But when 
 they had said their prayers to-night, they were sure all 
 would be well; they closed their eyes happily." 
 
 "All will be well," said Dorothy. 
 
 And presently she knew that Rosamond was asleep. 
 
 In the stillness and darkness, Dorothy's imagination 
 became active; it presented her husband, grave and 
 intent, bending with his knife over the wounded head; 
 so vivid was the picture that she clenched her hands and 
 compressed her lips. It faded and left her feeling awe 
 of her husband, and pride in him, and sorrow for him; 
 if only he had Sidney's hair and voice and eyes, Sidney's 
 charm and Sidney's smile, Sidney's confiding, whining 
 nature, if only Sidney and he were one! Couldn't 
 they, somehow, fuse into one person and be her husband, 
 could n't they would n't they ? 
 
 She was awakened by sunshine to the singing of the 
 meadow-larks. 
 
 Graham's condition was still precarious. He had 
 waked from sleep, not to delirium, but to a clouded 
 mind. "That's to be expected for a time," George said 
 to Rosamond. "He's holding his own anyway, and I 
 hope that soon there may be some positive gain." But 
 to Dorothy he admitted that his dread for Graham was 
 of something worse than death. 
 [ 368 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "Oh, no!" cried Dorothy in anguish. 
 
 "I hope not," George said. "In such a case it's 
 impossible to predict. I hope not." 
 
 Rosamond parted with her children willingly when 
 George told her it would be to the advantage of the 
 patient to have them out of the house for a time. She 
 was grateful to Dorothy for offering to take them, sorry 
 to let Dorothy go. "But you've helped me through my 
 worst time, Dorothy," she said. "I shall be braver 
 now." 
 
 Bobby and Alexander were not in the least surprised 
 to hear that their father was better; they and David, 
 too, were thrilled with excitement at being got ready for 
 a visit with Aunt Dorothy. Little George also was ex- 
 cited and went jumping and hopping about, not at all 
 reluctant to be returning home in such company. 
 
 "I will telephone you every day about the children," 
 Dorothy said to Rosamond. "And, oh, I hope I shall 
 hear nothing but good news of Graham." 
 
 The two women kissed and parted ; Rosamond's hazel 
 eyes, Dorothy's gray eyes were alike shining with tears. 
 
 Passing through Boston with the four children, Doro- 
 thy thought of Sidney, waiting at the Touraine for news 
 of her. She thought of him with no desire to telephone 
 to him, to hear his voice, or to see him. The emotional 
 stress of the last twenty -four hours had worn upon her; 
 she was tired : and she felt the responsibilities with which 
 she had charged herself. But she supposed that soon the 
 need of Sidney's love, of Sidney's companionship, would 
 reenter her life. Her listlessness and distaste at the 
 thought showed her how tired she was. 
 [ 369 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 She tried earnestly in the days that followed to fill a 
 mother's place to the four children. She submitted 
 humbly to be taught how to play the games that Rosa- 
 mond played with them. And taking part in the games, 
 and watching the children at play, she came to have a 
 better appreciation, a better understanding of her own 
 little boy. He was quick, he had spirit, he was affection- 
 ately responsive when she entered into his imaginative 
 games. And each night she went from one bed to an- 
 other, hearing each little soul say his prayers hearing 
 each small Rappalloend his petition thus: "And, God, 
 please make my daddy well and strong again"; hearing 
 her own small George echo the appeal: "And, God, 
 please make Bobby's daddy well and strong again." 
 
 Over the telephone Rosamond's voice sounded now 
 disheartened, now hopeful. After the first three days 
 she had ceased to fear for Graham's life, but it was plain 
 that the other dread had entered her heart. George, 
 however, to whom Dorothy telephoned daily, thought 
 that the outlook was growing more favorable, that 
 Graham's mental condition showed steady improve- 
 ment. He admitted apprehension lest the improvement 
 might continue merely to a certain point and then cease. 
 
 Anyway, the children played untroubled and un- 
 doubting. Dorothy sat on the beach one morning while 
 near by they were busily employed in their several en- 
 terprises. Bobby and George were building a sand fort; 
 Alexander was experimenting with some bits of drift- 
 wood, interested to discover that as often as they were 
 launched the sea persisted in returning them to the 
 sand; David pattered about collecting shells and bring- 
 [ 370 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 ing them to Dorothy. Presently, down near the edge of 
 the water, he stepped on a sharp one that cut his little 
 bare foot and caused him to set up a wail. Bobby 
 sprang from his fort-building and ran to comfort him; 
 he put his arm round David and led him sobbing to 
 Dorothy. 
 
 "It won't hurt him long, will it, Aunt Dorothy?" 
 Bobby said earnestly, while David held up his pink toes 
 for inspection. 
 
 "No, only a moment," Dorothy answered, and she 
 wiped the little foot with her handkerchief and held it 
 soothingly. 
 
 David with a contented sigh dropped down and put 
 his head on her lap; Bobby stooped and patted his 
 brother's cheek, and then went back to his play. Sud- 
 denly another little figure plumped on the sand beside 
 Dorothy, another curly head was burrowing in her lap; 
 it was her own little son. She stroked the two heads and 
 caressed the soft necks, and soon both little boys were 
 asleep. 
 
 Dorothy sat very still in order not to disturb them, 
 and while she sat thus, listening to their soft breathing, 
 hearing the gentle intermittent sounds of the activities 
 of the other two boys, there seemed to be a new birth of 
 tenderness in her heart. She thought of Bobby running 
 to David's aid, and felt she would like to see her own 
 little boy so run to help a younger brother; she felt, too, 
 that little George would always respond to such a call 
 with eagerness and affection that perhaps some 
 vague craving of his heart had sent him to her now to 
 snuggle his head in her lap along with David's. Perhaps 
 [ 371 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 a boy who never had a brother or a sister was likely to 
 grow up without developing to the full possibilities of 
 his nature, perhaps some of his best qualities would be 
 stunted and starved through no fault of his own; per- 
 haps even his capacity for usefulness as a man might be 
 dwarfed by the lonely egotism enforced upon him in 
 childhood. She tried to look ahead along the years 
 her son's years, not her own. The letter that she had 
 received that morning from Sidney stirred now no 
 ardent thoughts. 
 
 She wrote to him: "The course that I should have pur- 
 sued from a sense of duty is mine now by inclination. I 
 cannot explain to you how this has come about; indeed, 
 I hardly know. But what I have found is that my little 
 boy means more to me than you do. Perhaps I shall yet 
 find that my husband means more to me than you do. I 
 hope it may be so. But even if it should be otherwise, 
 our intercourse, Sidney, is forever at an end. Please do 
 not reply to this letter; do not try to persuade me or dis- 
 suade me. I have thought much since we parted; pas- 
 sion can never again absorb my whole life. Whatever 
 interest we may henceforth take in each other must be 
 from afar. And I sincerely hope that it will be a waning 
 interest, on both sides." 
 
 She dispatched her letter and when days passed con- 
 cluded, with a disappointment deeper than pique, that 
 Sidney had accepted her decision philosophically. He 
 obeyed her wishes ; he sent her no reply. 
 
 It was two weeks before Dorothy saw George again. 
 Meanwhile she had received both from him and from 
 Rosamond steadily favorable reports of Graham's pro- 
 [ 372 J
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 gress. Not, however, until George announced the fact 
 to her upon his arrival one Sunday at Manchester, did 
 she know that Graham's complete recovery was assured. 
 
 That Sunday afternoon, a golden September after- 
 noon, she led her husband through the garden, along the 
 woodland path, down the rocks to the cleft in which she 
 and Sidney had made their passionate vows. 
 
 "Sit down here, George," she said. "I want to talk to 
 you." 
 
 The glance that he gave her was apprehensive and 
 appealing; it produced in her a sudden warmth of sym- 
 pathy. He looked away, out at sea, and waited for her 
 to begin. Whitecaps were breaking on the waves far 
 out, the sails of the pleasure craft filled to the brisk 
 southerly breeze and shone hi the sun. 
 
 "George," she said, "you never made any comment 
 asked any questions about my arriving at Rosa- 
 mond's that night with Sidney." 
 
 "No," he answered. 
 
 "You haven't made any comment asked any 
 questions about my relations with Sidney for a long 
 time." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Of course you suspected that I went to New York 
 to see him that we met often." 
 
 "Yes. I suspected it." 
 
 Her head drooped. "I I'm afraid that you sus- 
 pected worse than that." 
 
 She saw the knuckles show white on his clasped 
 hands. 
 
 "No. Never." 
 
 [ 373 1
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 "It was mere chance that saved me, George." 
 
 He looked at her, speechless, eagerly questioning. 
 
 "I felt I loved him. He came for me here at this 
 place. And I agreed to go with him to go away with him 
 forever that afternoon. But when we reached Boston 
 I read of Graham's accident. And then I could n't go 
 on. I made Sidney take me to Rosamond's. I told him 
 it was only a postponement. But it was n't that, George. 
 I 've had a change of heart. I wrote to him that I would 
 never see him again." 
 
 L She was glad that her husband suddenly reached out 
 and clasped her in his arms pressed her close and 
 kissed her, murmuring words of love. She felt no such 
 delicious thrill as when Sidney had embraced her, here 
 in this place, she should never feel that again, but 
 she was moved by George's emotion, touched by his 
 joy and his tenderness. And it comforted her to think 
 that giving herself thus to her husband's arms she was 
 atoning in some measure for the illicit passion which in 
 this spot had reached its culmination. Henceforth the 
 place would not be one of wholly sinister significance. 
 
 Sitting there with her husband, she tried to exonerate 
 Sidney. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, no one has less cause to judge Sidney 
 harshly than I! My most shameful memory is of my 
 attempt to urge a woman to desert her husband and 
 come to me." 
 
 "Rosamond," said Dorothy, after a pause. "And it 
 must have been on her honeymoon!" 
 
 "Yes. I thought she and Graham didn't love each 
 other and I did love her. That 's over and done with 
 [ 374 ]
 
 THE WOMEN WE MARRY 
 
 for me, Dorothy, long since; I hope that your love for 
 Sidney will be over and done with likewise in time." 
 
 "I will do what I can," she answered in a low voice. 
 "I I never dreamed of any such similar thing in your 
 life, George." 
 
 "I have felt all through this experience of ours that I 
 was being justly punished," he said. "But I think truly 
 we have both of us been punished enough." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" she cried. And then with a sudden rush 
 of feeling, while her head rested on his breast, she said, 
 "George, I want to show you that I can be a good 
 mother! I've changed truly I have! Often now I 
 wish that George had a little brother or a little sister! 
 Oh, George, I do want to have children, and rear them 
 as all mine." 
 
 The serene blue sky brooded over them with its bless- 
 ing; when they entered the woodland path, the thrushes 
 in the trees strewed the leafy aisles with music of rejoic- 
 ing; when they emerged into the garden, the ^flowers 
 lifted up their faces to shine upon them ; for many of the 
 plants the seed-time had come. O glorious, decisive 
 afternoon! 
 
 THE END
 
 (be fiilu'rsibe 
 
 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
 U . S . A
 
 A 000133514