I still smiled.
“I expect she hasn't determined yet,” he went drawling on, “in what chair I will look most decorative.”
He ruminated.
“You know, she's got the idea that there's too much of everything. I guess there is, too—and that she ought to select only those things that an essential. I've been wondering, if she had more than one husband whether or not she'd select me——”
The restless young Jamie was now starting the machine, and Richard Starkweather leaned out and said to me in parting:
“isn't she a wonder! Did all the planning herself—wouldn't have an architect—wouldn't have a decorator—all I could do—”
As he turned around I saw him throw one arm carelessly about the shoulders of the sturdy younger boy who sat next him.
When I got home I told Harriet all about what I had seen and heard. I think I must feel when I am retailing such fascinating neighbourhood events to Harriet—how she does enjoy them!—I must feel very much as she does when she is urging me to have just a little more of the new gingerbread.
In the next few months I watched with indescribable interest the unfolding of the drama of Mary Starkweather. I saw her from time to time that summer and she seemed, and I think she was, happier than ever she had been before in her whole life. Making over her garden, selecting the “essential books,” choosing the best pictures for her rooms, even reforming the clothing of the boys, all with an emphasis upon perfect simplicity—her mind was completely absorbed. Occasionally Richard appeared upon the stage, a kind of absurd Greek chorus of one, who remarked what a wonderful woman this was and poked fun at himself and at the new house, and asserted that Mary could be as simple as ever she liked, he insisted on thick soup for dinner and would not sacrifice his beloved old smoking jacket upon the altar of any new idea.
“She's a wonder, David,” he'd wind up: “but this simple life is getting more complicated every day.”