"I will let the sea talk to me," Margaret said.
The sea talked to her a good deal that summer. When the Baltimore party was gone and she was well enough to go about, Victor had formed the acquaintance of certain gentlemen who were fond of cards and pool, and she had many leisure hours for communion with it. What it told her she never repeated. If she said anything to it in reply, it was with silent speech, until one day as she stood looking out over its lonely wastes, she suddenly clasped her hands and pressed them to her breast, whispering brokenly, "He is—so different—from father!"
They went back in September,—Margaret gladly. In their own home they would fall back into the blissful life that had been theirs at first. Somehow it seemed to be slipping away from them. A hotel was no place to live. When they were at home again she would try hard to get it back. Why should her husband be less thoughtful, less tender of her now than then,—now when she needed it more? She had heard of married people growing apart—even when there seemed to be no special trouble between them. Oh, how wretched that would be! how intolerable! They must not do that! She would make his home bright and attractive. She had read that it was always a woman's fault if her husband's interest waned,—it was because she did not meet him at the door with a smile, and have his slippers warming on the hearth, and wear a white dress with a red rose at the belt, and another in her hair. But then one could hardly remember all the things the books said women must do to hold the love their husbands had poured out upon them so unstintedly before marriage.
One cold, wet, disagreeable night in October Margaret had a fire lighted in the library grate. It was the first one on their own hearth, and she had not yet got over the charm of "first things." It seemed to her when they came into the room that she had never seen a sweeter, more attractive place.
"Do you remember what Holmes says his idea of comfort is?" she asked, turning to Victor brightly as they sat down before the glowing coals.
"No. What is it?"
"'Four feet on a fender.' Isn't that epigrammatic and—and full of tenderness?"
"It is epigrammatic, all right. I can't quite see the tenderness. You will have to explain."
She shook her head, with the ghost of a smile.
"There are some things that can't be explained, Victor,—the humor of a joke, for instance. If you don't see it, it isn't there—for you."