"Ugh! A woman with blue spectacles and short hair!"
And the questioner had all the information he wanted.
If the answer had been: "He's married old Kochstrom's daughter," the second question would have been: "Did he get any money with her?"
The world asks no further questions, and everything would be all right—if this were all. But the world demands that a couple which has three times given the clergyman the trouble to read the banns and the community to listen to them; which has forced its fellow-creatures to engage in genealogical research and send a reporter to the wedding—the world demands that such a couple shall be happy—woe to it if it is not!
Supposing that on coming home from school, tired with her work, angry at a slight, depressed because some of her efforts have proved a failure, she should meet a friend in the street who takes her hand and says: "You don't look too happy, Elizabeth," then woe to him!
Supposing that on leaving his office, in despair because he has been overlooked instead of promoted, he should meet a friend who finds him looking depressed, then woe to her!
Unhappy people, if you dare to be anything but happy!
It was a winter evening two or three years later; she was bending over her writing desk, correcting copybooks, he was sitting in his room computing assessments of property. The pens were scribbling, the clock was ticking, and the tea-kettle singing. Whenever he looked up from his documents at her sweet face, she raised her eyes, their glances met, and they nodded to each other as if they had been parted for a long time. And they continued working.
But finally he grew tired of his work.
"Talk to me a little," he pleaded.