"I can't feel that she's altogether ignorant," said Mrs. Corey justly.
"Of course she can read and write," admitted Nanny.
"I can't imagine what he finds to talk about with her," said Lily.
"Oh, THAT'S very simple," returned her sister.
"They talk about themselves, with occasional references to each other. I have heard people 'going on' on the hotel piazzas. She's embroidering, or knitting, or tatting, or something of that kind; and he says she seems quite devoted to needlework, and she says, yes, she has a perfect passion for it, and everybody laughs at her for it; but she can't help it, she always was so from a child, and supposes she always shall be,--with remote and minute particulars. And she ends by saying that perhaps he does not like people to tat, or knit, or embroider, or whatever. And he says, oh, yes, he does; what could make her think such a thing? but for his part he likes boating rather better, or if you're in the woods camping. Then she lets him take up one corner of her work, and perhaps touch her fingers; and that encourages him to say that he supposes nothing could induce her to drop her work long enough to go down on the rocks, or out among the huckleberry bushes; and she puts her head on one side, and says she doesn't know really. And then they go, and he lies at her feet on the rocks, or picks huckleberries and drops them in her lap, and they go on talking about themselves, and comparing notes to see how they differ from each other. And----"
"That will do, Nanny," said her mother.
Lily smiled autumnally. "Oh, disgusting!"
"Disgusting? Not at all!" protested her sister. "It's very amusing when you see it, and when you do it----"
"It's always a mystery what people see in each other," observed Mrs. Corey severely.
"Yes," Nanny admitted, "but I don't know that there is much comfort for us in the application." "No, there isn't," said her mother.