“My dear,” I answered (What else was there to answer?) “the children have waited a long time.”
“I hate to turn back—to have you say I’m a coward—”
“I won’t say that, Sylvia.”
“You will be too kind, no doubt, but that will be the truth.”
I tried to reassure her. But the acids I had used—intended for tougher skins than hers—had burned into the very bone, and now it was not possible to stop their action. “I must make you understand,” she said, “how serious a thing it seems to me for a wife to stand out against her husband. I’ve been brought up to feel that it was the most terrible thing a woman could do.”
She stopped, and when she went on again her face was set like one enduring pain. “So this is the decision to which I have come. If I do anything of a public nature now, I drive my husband from me; on the other hand, if I take a little time, I may be able to save the situation. I need to educate myself, and I’m hoping I may be able to educate him at the same time. If I can get him to read something—if it’s only a few paragraphs everyday—I may gradually change his point of view, so that he will tolerate what I believe. At any rate, I ought to try; I am sure that is the wise and kind and fair thing to do.”
“What will you do about the ball?” I asked.
“I am going to take him away, out of this rush and distraction, this dressing and undressing, hurrying about meeting people and chattering about nothing.”
“He is willing?”
“Yes; in fact, he suggested it himself. He thinks my mind is turned, with all the things I’ve been reading, and with Mrs. Frothingham, and Mrs. Allison, and the rest. He hopes that if I go away, I may quiet down and come to my senses. We have a good excuse. I have to think of my health just now—-”