“You didn’t care then that I was French and had a most unquakerish name—”
“Say ‘thee,’ please, Ann (her name was Jeanne), and when thee thinks ‘Quaker’ say Friend.”
“Yes, John.”
It is true that the smiles the thought of her bridehood brought had gone from her face with the sigh which followed. But another smile was there—for him. For she knew perfectly what was beneath this ecclesiastical chill. The very man who had been her bridegroom, and had never been anything else.
“Some people blame it on heredity—their poor parents; some upon temperament. But it is neither thee nor me now. I think it is nothing but temptation—the getting into contact with evil—just as that is necessary to contract tuberculosis.”
“But, John,” smiled the wife, “I was a wicked little girl when thee found me in Paris—”
“And saved thee!” thundered John.
“Yes, John. Wasn’t it queer that I should like thee with no collar on thy coat? At first I think it was because thee was so different—so very strong thee seemed.”
“It proves,” said John, with chilly wisdom, “that if evil is communicable, goodness, also, is, and that it is stronger than evil.”
“But what, then, brought thee to the theatre, where I danced? I had never before seen a Quaker there—I had never before seen one anywhere.”