I have said that he was proud of her. One evening, while she stood on a chair struggling with a recalcitrant window-shade, he drew my attention to her efforts admiringly
"Look at her!" he said under his breath. "Another woman would make her husband do it. Not she. I can't kick. She is not a lazy slob, is she?"
"Certainly not," I asserted
We watched her take the shade down, wind up the spring, fit the pins back into their sockets, and then test the flap. It was in good working order now
"No, she is not a slob," he repeated, exultantly. "And she is not a gossiping sort, either. She just minds her own business."
At this point Dora came over to the table where we sat. "Move along!" he said, gaily. "Don't disturb us. I am telling Levinsky what a bad girl you are. Run along."
She gave us a shy side-glance like those that had carried the first germ of disquiet into my soul, and moved away
"No, she is no slob, thank God," he resumed. He boasted of her tidiness and of the way she had picked up her English and learned to read and spell, with little Lucy for her teacher. He depicted the tenacity and unflagging ardor with which she had carried on her mental pursuits ever since Lucy began to go to school. "Once she makes up her mind to do something she will stick to it, even if the world went under. That's the kind of woman she is. And she is no mean, foxy thing, either. When she says something you may be sure she means it, if I do say so. You ought to know her by this time. Have you ever heard her say things that are not so? Or have you heard her talk about the neighbors as other women-folk will do? Have you, now? Just tell me," he pressed me.
"Of course I have not," I answered, awkwardly. "There are not many women like her."
"I know there are not. And, well, if she is not devoted to her hubby,
I don't know who is," he added, sheepishly.