“I don't want a palace!” she cried. “I'd rather live here, like this, always.”
A certain vehemence in her manner troubled me. I was charmed by this disposition for domesticity, and yet I shrank from the contemplation of its permanency. I felt vaguely, at the time, the possibility of a future conflict of temperaments. Maude was docile, now. But would she remain docile? and was it in her nature to take ultimately the position that was desirable for my wife? Well, she must be moulded, before it were too late. Her ultra-domestic tendencies must be halted. As yet blissfully unaware of the inability of the masculine mind to fathom the subtleties of feminine relationships, I was particularly desirous that Maude and Nancy Durrett should be intimates. The very day after our arrival, and while we were still at my mother's, Nancy called on Maude, and took her out for a drive. Maude told me of it when I came home from the office.
“Dear old Nancy!” I said. “I know you liked her.”
“Of course, Hugh. I should like her for your sake, anyway. She's—she's one of your oldest and best friends.”
“But I want you to like her for her own sake.”
“I think I shall,” said Maude. She was so scrupulously truthful! “I was a little afraid of her, at first.”
“Afraid of Nancy!” I exclaimed.
“Well, you know, she's much older than I. I think she is sweet. But she knows so much about the world—so much that she doesn't say. I can't describe it.”
I smiled.
“It's only her manner. You'll get used to that, when you know what she really is.”