May 26. George came in this morning on business, and before he went he thanked me for calling on his wife.
"I shouldn't have made a wedding-call just now on anybody else," I told him; "but your association with Father and the way in which we have known you of course make a difference."
He showed some embarrassment, but apparently—at least so I thought—he was so anxious to know what I thought of Mrs. Weston that he could not drop the subject.
"Gertrude isn't bookish," he remarked rather confusedly. "I hope you found things to talk about."
"Meaning that I can talk of nothing but books?" I returned. "Poor George, how I must have bored you in times past."
He flushed and grew more confused still.
"Of course you know I didn't mean anything like that," he protested.
I laughed at his grave face, and then I was so glad to find I could talk to him about his wife without feeling awkward that I laughed again. He looked so puzzled I was ready to laugh in turn at him, but I restrained myself. I could not understand my good spirits, and for that matter I do not now. Somehow my call of yesterday seems to have made a difference in my feeling toward George. Just how or just what I cannot fully make out. I certainly have not ceased to care about him. I am still fond of the George I have known for so many years; but somehow the husband of Mrs. Weston does not seem to be the same man. The George Weston who can love this woman and be in sympathy with her is so different from anything I have known or imagined the old George to be that he affects me as a stranger.
The truth is I have for the past month been in the midst of things so serious that my own affairs and feelings have ceased to appear of so much importance. When death comes near enough for us to see it face to face, we have a better appreciation of values, and find things strangely altered. I have had, moreover, little time to think about myself, which is always a good thing; and to my surprise I find now that I am not able to pity myself nearly as much as I did.