February 25.
Well, he was here and Florence thought he was lovely. She came in for a few moments and then excused herself, so we had the time all to ourselves. I don’t know how I dared to do it, but it seemed as if something impelled me to, and I said, “Mr. Forsythe, I don’t believe you are as happy as you say you are. If you were you would not encourage yourself so much.”
He was silent what seemed to me an interminable length of time and I thought, “Now, my lady, you have spoiled your chances to do a good work, by a word inopportunely spoken.” But I was wrong. He came over to me and sat down beside me on the couch. He took my hand in his and said, “Miss Montgomery, you are right, but you are the only one who has discerned it, or at least the only one who has said so.”
Then I told him I was sorry I had been so abrupt, but he assured me that it was all right and that he was glad I had spoken because now he would feel free to talk the whole matter over with me.
He said his wife was good and kind, in fact, I don’t know that he said anything but nice things, now that I stop to think of it.
But, little diary, I think I have discovered the trouble. I don’t believe she understands him. She doesn’t appreciate the depth of his nature. It may be no fault of hers; she associates with him daily and feels herself so much a part of him that she has ceased to analyze him. It is not that he has ceased to be interesting to her, for she loves him devotedly, but it is the nature of a man to desire commendation and encouragement. He doesn’t wish it to be taken for granted that he is doing well, but wishes to hear words, words.
A deep bond of sympathy exists between us. I understand and he feels that I understand. Oh, I am sure now that I can do good!