Mary thought it over. There was no doubt in her mind that most of the wives she knew understood their husbands thoroughly, thus sparing them the trouble of understanding their wives. It was obvious; one took it for granted. But one did not put one's husband in a book—not as he was. It would be treacherous. If Mary had written a book its hero would have been not James, but the glorified creature that lay hidden in James. What a hero he would make! "Of course," she said to Laura, "I suppose it is difficult for women to know what men are like when they are together."
Laura was busy accusing herself of having grumbled about Harry, and she said nothing.
"It's very nice that men are so talkative," Mary went on, to break the silence. "Their lives are exciting, and, I suppose, as they're not forced back upon subtleties, they find ours dull." Mary was not at her ease talking in this fashion about men. When she thought of them as a sex it was kindly, with a mingling of forbearance and admiration. They were not to be criticised, but gently influenced in the right direction. Nor could she be candid upon a subject that led her constantly to consideration of James.
She left Laura with a feeling of misgiving. It wasn't right or natural that Laura should be thinking of such things. It must, in some way, be Harry's fault—Laura was such a fine creature. Even if she loved Harry too much, too passionately, as James seemed to think, so that she was defenceless against him, there shouldn't have been any need for her to defend herself. Perhaps she was a little undisciplined, with more discipline she might have borne it better—whatever it was. But after all one came back to this, it was not right that she should have anything to bear.
Mary was glad now of the element of serenity, of detachment, that she had sometimes regretted in her love for James. She respected love too much to lose herself in it. It had never been for her a new vision, a mystical flame, but a safe shelter and a tranquil happiness. When she thought again of Laura her heart sank.
She arrived home to find that Miss Percival was waiting for her. Miss Percival had been to see how Florrie was getting on at her new work, and she reported that Florrie was doing well and being a good girl, but that there was a man sending notes to her of whom Miss Percival's friend didn't quite like the looks. He might be all right, but then on the other hand he might be up to no good.
Miss Percival's demeanour seemed to indicate that good was the last thing any such man would be up to.
A flicker of protesting thoughts rose in Mary's mind. Why did men exist? Why couldn't they be trusted? Why couldn't they keep away from girls? Why did girls ever want to have anything to do with them? Always these troubles on account of men! She told herself, with necessary sternness, that it was all perfectly natural, and it was to be hoped that some day Florrie would marry some nice man and settle down happily. Not that a workingman's wife has much chance, after a bit, of doing anything happily. Perhaps Florrie would marry above her—but to do that the poor child must run such terrible risks. She might get fond of one of these men—Mary wouldn't have answered for Florrie if once her emotions were thoroughly roused. Not that one wanted her to marry without being fond of her husband—why was it that life was so difficult for poor girls?
She forced her thoughts back to the conversation, for she noticed suddenly that Miss Percival seemed to be waiting for her to speak. "Is there anything to be done? What can we do?" she asked.
Miss Percival shook her head. "There's nothing to be done. Of course," she went on, "it ought to be as safe for Florrie to have men friends as it is for your daughters. Only men, especially rich men, don't want it to be."