“That all such things are quite unimportant: in a few months’ time I go back. It is not a time to be making such decisions.”
“You will come through safely, Monsieur Littledale,” she said, in a tone of deep conviction. “I know it. I feel it. I have strange intuitions sometimes. I see storm and trouble ahead but I see the end in happiness for you.” She could not have realized the gentleness which came into her voice. I knew that the secret of her change of manner was the introduction of a third. Was I altogether honest in permitting a serious discussion, for no thought of such a marriage was then in my mind. I watched her face eagerly, wondering at the gentle womanliness that came out of its hidden cell,—all unconsciousness and simplicity.
“And your mother—what is she like?” she said.
“Mother? Why, I don’t know how to describe her,” I said, in some perplexity. “I don’t know whether you’d understand. Mother goes in for public things—very strong on woman suffrage, charities, uplift, and pacifism. She’s a terrific worker. She has terrific convictions—terrific! The Governor’s a trump; a sort of country gentleman. He’s written quite a bit; he has convictions, too: other convictions. There’s six of us; all with convictions—separate convictions. Oh, we’d amuse you. A typical American family.”
She shook her head.
“That seems so strange; but don’t your families stand together?”
“Well, there’s one thing unites us,” I said, with a laugh. “We agree on our right to disagree.”
She frowned in some perplexity.
“I don’t think I understand a home like that.”