“No?” Timothy’s tone held only inquiry. He had the most tractable memory in the world.
“Certainly not. I was talked into it. Warren and Warren’s mother kept saying there was no sense in delaying the thing, and I supposed there wasn’t, as we’d have to get married some time, wouldn’t we, being in love and all?”
“Sometimes people don’t,” began Timothy. “In stories——”
“Oh, bother stories!” interrupted Patsy, rudely. “You promised to try to forget you were a writer. Quick, look at these silly rings—that woman’s listening. Well, so I married Warren, and for a while, you know, we didn’t get along so badly—the first year we were married we hadn’t but seven serious quarrels; of course there were little things, but you know yourself, Timmie, we managed very nicely.”
“It always seemed so to me,” Timothy came in promptly on his cue.
“That,” Patsy triumphed, “was because Warren was in love with me. He didn’t care then how much slang I used or if I wore boys’ boots; I could climb trees all day long when we were up at camp, and ride bareback all over the place. But now,” the piquant little face grew tragic, “it’s that same old thing—the glamour’s wearing off, and”—Patsy’s voice sounded unpleasantly older than twenty-one—“my husband’s tired of me, the real me. Now he wants me made to his order, to his mother’s order; now”—a big tear splashed on her engagement ring—“I’m just the mother of his child. I’m expected to be old and dull and mouse about in corners with a book or some sewing. Sewing! When I can sail a boat better than any one on Barnegat, and play hockey, and ride even the Blue Devil, that all the Club’s afraid of! Sewing!”
“Claire sews,” Timothy reflected.
“Of course she does,” snapped Patsy. “Claire was born amiable and womanly and all the sweet normal things a woman ought to be. I wasn’t. I’ve never been anything but a harum-scarum r-r-rowdy, just as Warren called me, I——”
“You’ve been the mother of the Angel.” Timothy spoke softly, almost reverently. “Claire has only been allowed to be a stepmother.”
“That makes it just so much worse,” choked Patsy, flashing diamonds as though for her life. “I—can’t you see, I don’t deserve to—to be the Angel’s mother! Tha—that’s what Warren thinks.”