She came and sat down by him again.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know. If she apologizes, I shall forgive her, and I shall try to forget. But I didn’t think it of her. And if she doesn’t apologize—I don’t know. I can’t be expected to eat my words: that would be countenancing what she has done. I couldn’t do it: it would not be sincere. I’m straight, I hope: if I say a thing it may be taken for granted that I mean it.”
She looked up at him with her chin raised.
“I think you are wonderful,” she said, “to be able even to think of forgiving her. If I had behaved like that, I should not expect Wilfred to forgive me. But then you are so big, so big. She does not understand you: she can’t understand one thing about you. She doesn’t know—oh, how blind some women are!”
It was little wonder that by this time Major Ames was beginning to feel an extraordinarily fine fellow, nor was it more wonderful that he basked in the warm sense of being understood. But from the first Millie had understood him. He felt that particularly now, at this moment, when Amy had so hideously flouted and wronged him. All through this last summer, the situation of to-day had been foreshadowed; it had always been in this house rather than in his own that he had been welcomed and appreciated. He had been the architect and adviser in the Shakespeare ball, while at home Amy dealt out her absurd printed menu-cards without consulting him. And the garden which he loved—who had so often said, “These sweet flowers, are they really for me?” Who, on the other hand, had so often said, “The sweet-peas are not doing very well, are they?” And then he looked at Millie’s soft, youthful face, her eyes, that sought his in timid, sensitive appeal, her dim golden hair, her mouth, childish and mysterious. For contrast there was the small, strong, toad’s face, the rather beady eyes, the hair—grey or brown, which was it? Also, Millie understood; she saw him as he was—generous, perhaps, to a fault, but big, big, as she had so properly said. She always made him feel so comfortable, so contented with himself. That was the true substance of a woman’s mission, to make her husband happy, to make him devoted to her, instead of raising hell in the town hall, and insisting on apologies afterwards.
“You’ve cheered me up, Millie,” he said; “you’ve made me feel that I’ve got a friend, after all, a friend who feels with me. I’m grateful; I’m—I’m more than grateful. I’m a tough old fellow, but I’ve got a heart still, I believe. What’s to happen to us all?”
It was emotion, real and genuine emotion, that made Millie clever at that moment. Her mind was of no high order; she might, if she thought about a thing, be trusted to exhibit nothing more subtle than a fair grasp of the obvious. But now she did not think: she was prompted by an instinct that utterly transcended any achievement of which her brain was capable.
“Go back to your house,” she said, “and be ready for Cousin Amy to say she is sorry. Very likely she is waiting for you there now. Oh, Lyndhurst——”
He got up at once: those few words made him feel completely noble; they made her feel noble likewise. The atmosphere of nobility was almost suffocating....