Mr. Cutter ventured timidly that she had made George a “good wife.”
“Good, good, good,” she repeated. “I wish somebody could think of some other word for her. But they can’t. Good’s the adjective she’s been known by all her life.”
“Well, it is a very good way to be known, my dear,” he returned mildly.
“There you go again. Lower my pillow, Mr. Cutter. I can’t keep my head up and think about her. She weighs on me like a load of commonest virtues.”
He let her gently down. She glared at him. He smoothed her pillow. Would she like a sip of water?
No! and she was not to be diverted, if that was what he was trying to do. “Do you know what a merely good woman can be?” she demanded.
The word good occurred to him again. He wanted to say that there was nothing better than a good woman, but he refrained. He must not irritate Maggie; if only she would not work herself up.
“She can be the least intelligent creature alive, obsessed with the practice of her duties. Her mind inside her, never in touch with what is bigger and more important outside. She can be the stone around her husband’s neck. That is what Helen is.”
Mr. Cutter sighed. He was fond of Helen.
“What has she ever done for George? I ask you that.” She waited for his answer as if she defied him to name one thing Helen had done to help her husband.