“Am I all right now, George?” she asked, as if she had been shriven by this embrace.
“Absolutely,” he assured her.
They sat down. Helen sighed, being now full of that sad peace which makes sighs.
“The trouble with you is, dear, that you are never wrong. That cuts you out of life. We who are in the thick of it must be a little wrong,” he explained.
“I suppose so,” she agreed.
“Not so rigid. We can’t be,” he said.
She agreed to that also.
“If you could be a little less perfect, it would help me a lot.”
She smiled, implying that in that case she was in a position to help him. But what could she do? She had often felt how little service she was.
Her meekness intrigued him. “How would you like to live in New York?” he asked.