I must have betrayed the fact that I was a little startled, for the remark came as a confirmation of what I had dimly felt.
“Of course she has,” I agreed, somewhat lamely. “Every woman has, who is worth her salt.”
Nancy's smile bespoke a knowledge that seemed to transcend my own.
“You do like her?” I demanded.
“I like her very much indeed,” said Nancy, a little gravely. “She's simple, she's real, she has that which so few of us possess nowadays—character. But—I've got to be prepared for the possibility that she may not get along with me.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“There you are again, with your old unwillingness to analyze a situation and face it. For heaven's sake, now that you have married her, study her. Don't take her for granted. Can't you see that she doesn't care for the things that amuse me, that make my life?”
“Of course, if you insist on making yourself out a hardened, sophisticated woman—” I protested. But she shook her head.
“Her roots are deeper,—she is in touch, though she may not realize it, with the fundamentals. She is one of those women who are race-makers.”
Though somewhat perturbed, I was struck by the phrase. And I lost sight of Nancy's generosity. She looked me full in the face.