“I mean that you mustn’t even have the appearance of liking admiration, or what you call attentions. It’s wicked.”
“I suppose so,” murmured the culprit.
“You have been brought up to have such different ideas of divorce from what I have,” continued Grace, “that I don’t feel as if I had any right to advise you about what you are to do after you gain your suit.”
“I shall not want to get married again for one while; I know that much,” Mrs. Maynard interpolated self-righteously.
“But till you do gain it, you ought not to regard it as emancipating you in the slightest degree.”
“No,” came in sad assent from the victim of the law’s delays.
“And I want you to promise me that you won’t go walking with Mr. Libby any more; and that you won’t even see him alone, after this.”
“Why, but Grace!” cried Mrs. Maynard, as much in amazement as in annoyance. “You don’t seem to understand! Haven’t I told you he was a friend of the family? He’s quite as much Mr. Maynard’s friend as he is mine. I’m sure,” she added, “if I asked Mr. Libby, I should never think of getting divorced. He’s all for George; and it’s as much as I can do to put up with him.”
“No matter. That doesn’t alter the appearance to people here. I don’t wish you to go with him alone any more.”
“Well, Grace, I won’t,” said Mrs. Maynard earnestly. “I won’t, indeed. And that makes me think: he wanted you to go along this morning.”