“Oh no; we must go to the theatre and forget them. We can stop at Brentano's for our tickets as we pass through Union Square.”
“I am not going to the theatre, Basil. I am going home to Boston to-night. You can stay and find a flat.”
He convinced her of the absurdity of her position, and even of its selfishness; but she said that her mind was quite made up irrespective of what had happened, that she had been away from the children long enough; that she ought to be at home to finish up the work of leaving it. The word brought a sigh. “Ah, I don't know why we should see nothing but sad and ugly things now. When we were young—”
“Younger,” he put in. “We're still young.”
“That's what we pretend, but we know better. But I was thinking how pretty and pleasant things used to be turning up all the time on our travels in the old days. Why, when we were in New York here on our wedding journey the place didn't seem half so dirty as it does now, and none of these dismal things happened.”
“It was a good deal dirtier,” he answered; “and I fancy worse in every way—hungrier, raggeder, more wretchedly housed. But that wasn't the period of life for us to notice it. Don't you remember, when we started to Niagara the last time, how everybody seemed middle-aged and commonplace; and when we got there there were no evident brides; nothing but elderly married people?”
“At least they weren't starving,” she rebelled.
“No, you don't starve in parlor-cars and first-class hotels; but if you step out of them you run your chance of seeing those who do, if you're getting on pretty well in the forties. If it's the unhappy who see unhappiness, think what misery must be revealed to people who pass their lives in the really squalid tenement-house streets—I don't mean picturesque avenues like that we passed through.”
“But we are not unhappy,” she protested, bringing the talk back to the personal base again, as women must to get any good out of talk. “We're really no unhappier than we were when we were young.”
“We're more serious.”