Agatha hid her face in her handkerchief again. She was perching on the edge of the berth, and Mrs. March said, with a glance, which she did not see, toward the sofa, “I'm afraid that's rather a hard seat for you.
“Oh, no, thank you! I'm perfectly comfortable—I like it—if you don't mind?”
Mrs. March pressed her hand for answer, and after another little delay, sighed and said, “They are not like us, and we cannot help it. They are more temporizing.”
“How do you mean?” Agatha unmasked again.
“They can bear to keep things better than we can, and they trust to time to bring them right, or to come right of themselves.”
“I don't think Mr. March would trust things to come right of themselves!” said Agatha in indignant accusal of Mrs. March's sincerity.
“Ah, that's just what he would do, my dear, and has done, all along; and I don't believe we could have lived through without it: we should have quarrelled ourselves into the grave!”
“Mrs. March!”
“Yes, indeed. I don't mean that he would ever deceive me. But he would let things go on, and hope that somehow they would come right without any fuss.”
“Do you mean that he would let anybody deceive themselves?”