"Scarcely. She is very well paid where she is. Besides, what would there be for her in other ways?"
"As much as there is for you, poor girl."
"Oh, no—for I have my husband."
"And you feel sure that she isn't trifling with Caleb?"
"The idea! If you could see them together—dear, poor Caleb, with his thin figure, ragged beard, tired face, and stooping pose—Mary rather short, but erect, with broad shoulders, brilliant eyes, rosy cheeks, the reddish brown hair that delights your artistic eye, and as quick in her motions as if she never knew weariness. She's of the kind that never grows old; there are such women. Oh, the comparison is ridiculous—'tis unkind to Caleb to make it. Besides, she is not the only clever business woman to whom I gave him letters."
"H'm! He's startlingly silent about the others. What troubles me is this: Caleb is so honest and earnest, and so unaccustomed to brilliant women, that he may lose his heart, and the more impossible the affair, the more he'll suffer. 'Twould be bad business to have him go abroad to be cured of malaria, only to return and die of heartache."
"Phil, Caleb isn't a fool."
"No, but he's a man."
