“I suppose because we love you. You don’t deserve it, but there it is, the mystery. Your friends are anxious that you should have all the bothers taken away, that you should be at your best and happy.”
“My friends! They had better give up trying.”
“Your Uncle Sebastian, Mr. Jennings, and I—”
“Thornton Jennings!” Mrs. Wilbur repeated the name wistfully. “There is a soul—I haven’t seen him for weeks.”
“Promise me that you will let me know if you ever think of doing anything desperate.”
Mrs. Wilbur laughed and kissed her. “I’ll take you along too, to look after me.”
While they made ready for the dinner-party of the evening, the talk ran on in the commonplace channels of dress and dinner guests. Mrs. Wilbur’s face cleared, and she became that object rarely seen of men,—a woman’s woman absorbed in trivialities. From dress they got to the kindergarten, to Molly’s latest suitors,—especially to Thornton Jennings. Him they discussed from every point of view, Molly detailing bits of conversation, his personal habits, gossip about him by other women. All the odds and ends which, unknown to a man, go to make the picture he presents to the woman of his adoration.
“I don’t know him!” the younger woman exclaimed at last. “How is this, Adela, bien porté?” She shook herself into her evening dress. “When he begins to make love I shall know,—it would be nicer if they had made the skirt the least bit fuller.”
“I don’t think so, but if you want, Jane can let it out. John says Ikel and Wren are awfully clever and successful.”
“One doesn’t marry a man’s brains altogether,—yes, do send Jane,—one runs off with clever men.”