"Yes, Lydia, it was; but I like it. All I ask is a little tyrant in my home."
She sighed so deeply that he leaned over and kissed her cool cheek.
"Good-by, my dear," he said.
The kiss did not go badly. He had done it as if, though not sure of success, he was not adventuring on absolutely untried ground.
"I think you'd better not do that, Bobby."
"Do you hate it?"
"Not particularly, only I don't want you to get dependent on it."
He laughed as he shut the car door. The light of the engine was visible above the low woods to their left.
"I'll take my chances on that," he said.
As she drove away she felt the injustice of the world. Everyone did ask your advice; they did want you to take an interest, but they complained when this interest led you to exert the slightest pressure on them to do what you saw was best. That was so illogical. You couldn't give a person advice that was any good unless you entered in and made their problem yours, and of course if you did that—only how few people except herself ever did it for their friends—then you were concerned, personally concerned that they should follow your advice. They were all content, too, she thought, when her tyranny worked out for their good. Bobby, for instance, had not complained of her having forced the Emmonses to ask him for Sunday. He thought that commendable. Perhaps the Emmonses hadn't. And yet how much better to be clear. She did not want to go and spend Sunday with anyone unless she could be sure of having someone to amuse her. Suppose she had gone there and found that like Benny they were using her to entertain some of their dull friends. That would have made her angry. She might have been disagreeable and broken up a friendship. This way it was safe.