She leaned forward so she could look him squarely in the face.
"Isadore!" she said in an aggrieved tone, "can't men ever understand women—not even the very simplest things? Three years I wasted dreaming—no; I won't say 'wasted.' I haven't any quarrel with my girlhood. Three years I dreamed about him. But it's four years now—four years—that I've lived with you. Can't you understand how immense that difference seems to a woman? There are some of my ideas, perhaps, some of my intellect that he's father of. But, Isadore, you're the father of my children."
"Yes," he said, somewhat comforted. "I think I can understand a little of that—but—well, I never wished I had money so much before. I wish I could give you the things Walter would have."
"Don't you do any mourning about that," she said brazenly, "till I begin it."
She slipped her hand into his, indifferent to the other passengers. Her conscience hurt a little on this score, for after all she had envied Beatrice's opportunity to be beautiful. They sat silent for quite a long interval.
"I'm glad we visited them," she went on. "But I'm gladder that we're started home again. I'm crazy to get back."
"Worrying about the kids?"
"Oh, yes! Of course, I worry about them all the time. Aunt Martha's as good to them as she knows how, but she's so old-fashioned. But I'm glad for another reason. I never realized before the real difference between Walter and me. It's a wonderfully beautiful life, that cottage of theirs, the books, the old colleges, and the river. You can't deny that there's a graciousness about it. But it would kill me. He's happy thinking about things. But I'd die if I wasn't doing things! Love isn't enough by itself. I'd starve. I'm hungry to get back to work. That's the Real Thing, we got, Isadore. It makes our Love worth while. Our Work."