"There's something in the freedom which two women can have when they are alone," she said, "that is glorious. We are ourselves. When men are around we are always acting."
Nancy was not so subtle. "I am myself with Richard."
"No, you're not, Nancy. You are always trying to please him. You make him feel important. You make him feel that he is the head of the house. You know what I mean."
Nancy did know. But she didn't choose to admit it.
"Well, I like to please him." Then with a sudden burst of longing, "Sulie, I want him here all of the time—to please."
"Oh, my dear," Sulie caught Nancy's hands up in her own, "oh, my dear. How mothers love their sons. I am glad I haven't any. I used to long for children. I don't any more. Nothing can hurt me as Richard hurts you, Nancy."
Nancy refused to talk of it. "We will ask David and Brinsley; that will be four men and three women, Sulie."
"Well, I can take care of David if you'll look after Brinsley and Rodman Warfield. And that will leave your Richard for Anne."
Nancy's candid glance met her cousin's. "That is the way I had hoped it might be—Richard and Anne. At first I thought it might be—and then something happened. He went to New York and that was the—end."
"If you had been more of a match-maker," Sulie said, "you might have managed. But you always think that such things are on the knees of the gods. Why didn't you bring them together?"
