"Tell her desert islands have to have a 'man Friday'—to say nothing of a few 'women Thursdays'!"
Eleanor was, Maurice said, like music heard far off, through mists and moonlight in a dark garden, "full of—of—what are those sweet-smelling things, that bloom only at night?" (Mary Houghton looked fatigued.) "Well, anyway, what I mean is that she isn't like ordinary people, like me—"
"Or Johnny," Edith broke in, earnestly.
"Johnny? Gosh! Why, Mrs. Houghton, things that don't touch most human beings, affect her terribly. The dark, or thunderstorms, or—or anything, makes her nervous. You understand?"
Mrs. Houghton said yes, she understood, but she would leave the rest of the weeding to her assistants ... In the studio, dropping her dusty garden gloves on a fresh canvas lying on the table, she almost wept:
"Henry, it is too tragic! She is such a goose, and he is so silly about her! What shall we do?"
"I'll tell you what not to do—spoil my new canvas! If you really want my advice:—tell Eleanor that the greatest compliment any husband can pay his wife is contained in four words: 'You never bore me'; and that if she isn't careful Maurice will never compliment her."
Down in the garden, no one was aware of any tragedy. "When I go to Fern Hill," Edith said, "I'm going to tell all the girls I know Eleanor! I'm 'ordinary,' too, beside her. And so is mother."
Maurice agreed. "We are all crude, compared to her."
Edith sighed with joy; if she had had any inclination to be contemptuous of Eleanor's timidity, it vanished when it was pointed out to her that it was really a sign of the Bride's infinite superiority.... So the three Houghtons accepted—one with amused pity, and the other with concern, and the third with admiration of such super-refinement,—the fact that Eleanor was a coward. Yet if she had not been a coward, something she did would not have been particularly brave, nor would it have wrung from Mary Houghton the admission: "I like her!"