Johns begged her not to be hasty. He prayed her to think it over; but he was forced by the stubborn, spoiled woman, to choose between a general promise to give up all liberty of thought, speech and action, or allow her to go back to her mother.
Mrs. Johns, without delay or preparation, went to her mother, and remained exactly eight days, receiving during that time eight letters from Johns; but refraining from reply.
During these eight days Mrs. Johns made great progress in wisdom. She made many useful discoveries, and thought much. She discovered that living with mother was not half as pleasant as living with Johns; that home was not what it used to be in her single days; that mother was very self-opinionated; that Johns could write much more interesting letters than she thought he could; that there are several kinds of love and several kinds of love letters; and that Johns knew how to write them all; that Johns was not so pliable as she had imagined he was; and that, anyway, she would rather love a man who had character enough to assert himself than a weakling.
On the eighth day of her separation from Johns, Mrs. Johns was sitting alone in her mother’s drawing room in the dusk of the evening musing on things in general, on her lot in particular, and on the revolt of Johns. She had the last letter from Johns tightly clasped in her hand, and she surprised herself saying aloud, “Poor Jack.” A week prior she would have murmured, “Poor me.” She was also surprised to feel tear drops in her eyes, and to find that resentment against Johns had no more place in her heart. She knelt down by the grate fire, and by its light she noticed the time on her wrist watch—half-past five. If she had been at her own home, Jack would be in or just coming in; he would be putting his arm around her and kissing her. What had he done, anyway, that was so dreadful, that she should leave him? He was certainly the best behaved man she knew. What was he doing now?
A sudden impulse seized her. She rushed to her room, and hastily donned a wrap, and hurried out towards her own home, wondering what she was going to do, what she was going to say, and what she was going to see; but nothing seemed to matter except that she must see Jack.
As she neared the familiar door she automatically put her hand into her bag for her key. It was there. Trembling now and eager, she opened the door and slipped in. All was quiet. Without expecting to see any one, she pushed her head between the portieres of the drawing room door, and peeped in. Horrors! Some one was there, and looking right at her. What Mrs. Johns saw was certainly unexpected and disconcerting. It was big Jack Johns, lying stretched on the best sofa, his head bolstered with the best sofa pillows, and puffing clouds of smoke from a pipe about her lovely drawing room. What she said was, “Why, Jack!” and Jack said, “You, Florry! Have you come back to hubby to be a good girl?”
Mrs. Johns’ reply was tears for a few seconds. Then she said: “Oh, Jack, I thought I could come back; but I see I cannot, because you do not love me or you would never have smoked in my drawing room, put your feet on the sofa, and your head on the best sofa pillows in the house.” Johns, now sitting up, laughed, drew his wife down beside him on the sofa and replied:
“Why, darling, it would be as wise for me to say that you do not love me or you would not mention such things as sofa cushions and sofas in the same breath with love. What does anything matter, dear, if two people love each other? If you love me, it is because I am myself, as I love you because you are your own dear self. I love you, faults and all, and you must love me faults and all, too. The way for us to be happy is for each to allow the other nearly as much liberty as though we were single. Love cannot stand continuous worry about small things. You know very well that I would not have desecrated your drawing room had you been here; but you being gone from me, drawing room, cushions or sofa had no value to me, other than the comfort they could afford me. Come now, is it a new start?”
“Oh, Jack, you do not understand,” said Mrs. Johns. “But I do understand,” replied Johns. “I understand very plainly, indeed, that we could never be happy in the way we were going. I could not be happy in one continued round of obeying orders, so like a private in a regiment of soldiers; and you could not be happy with a man you had to worry over and fuss about all the time as if he were a child. In that way we would worry each other out of all comfort in life, as I see many couples foolishly do. Let us be different from other couples.”
Mrs. Johns was thinking: “Where have you been, Jack, the last eight nights?” she asked.