“Oh, I know you will, Hugh, dear. And you'll forgive me, won't you, for being so horrid to-day, of all days? I do love you!”
Neither of us had ever been abroad. And although it was before the days of swimming-pools and gymnasiums and a la carte cafes on ocean liners, the Atlantic was imposing enough. Maude had a more lasting capacity for pleasure than I, a keener enjoyment of new experiences, and as she lay beside me in the steamer-chair where I had carefully tucked her she would exclaim:
“I simply can't believe it, Hugh! It seems so unreal. I'm sure I shall wake up and find myself back in Elkington.”
“Don't speak so loud, my dear,” I cautioned her. There were some very formal-looking New Yorkers next us.
“No, I won't,” she whispered. “But I'm so happy I feel as though I should like to tell everyone.”
“There's no need,” I answered smiling.
“Oh, Hugh, I don't want to disgrace you!” she exclaimed, in real alarm. “Otherwise, so far as I am concerned, I shouldn't care who knew.”
People smiled at her. Women came up and took her hands. And on the fourth day the formidable New Yorkers unexpectedly thawed.
I had once thought of Maude as plastic. Then I had discovered she had a mind and will of her own. Once more she seemed plastic; her love had made her so. Was it not what I had desired? I had only to express a wish, and it became her law. Nay, she appealed to me many times a day to know whether she had made any mistakes, and I began to drill her in my silly traditions,—gently, very gently.
“Well, I shouldn't be quite so familiar with people, quite so ready to make acquaintances, Maude. You have no idea who they may be. Some of them, of course, like the Sardells, I know by reputation.”