“No, grandma, Yvonne will never be Will’s wife. She has refused.”
“What did I say?” grandma replied. “She’s a doll—she doesn’t know what she wants! Does a young girl let herself be buried alive like that? Why shouldn’t she show herself as she is and say: ‘I will!’ when her happiness is at stake? She has much in common with Will, I am sure. But in this country no one dares to say what she thinks; people don’t look each other squarely in the face. If you wish, Ethel, we’ll leave for America to-morrow!”
“Wait a bit, grandma, and then you’ll love Yvonne with all your heart.”
“After what she has done? Never!”
“Because of what she has done? Sit down again, grandma, and I will tell you everything.”
“You will waste your breath, Ethel.”
“Wait,” Ethel continued. “Will was very much taken with Yvonne—I am sure that now he would be much more so if he were only allowed. The fact that he has been refused shows him so much better the woman he is losing. It has been a revelation to us. He was conquered by Yvonne as Desdemona by Othello. In a way he pitied the young girl’s lot—it was so childish; there was so little society for her. One ball a year,—a poor little ball, next to nothing,—a life passed in the dim light of curtains half drawn, near a deserted street, the strong contrast with Will’s stormy life in Chicago.”
“That is real life!” said grandma.
“Well,” Ethel continued, “everything took hold of Will, just as a man deafened with the noise of machinery loves the murmur of bees.”
“Oh, it is France Will’s in love with,” grandma said. “It was his auto journey from Paris and our excursions round the camp that he was going to marry—it’s only a fancy already passed.”