are so comfortably settled, isn’t it a pity to unsettle them?”
Amherst had intended, on leaving his mother. to rejoin Bessy, Whom he could still discern, on the lawn, in absorbed communion with Miss Brent; but after what had passed it seemed impossible, for the moment, to recover the garden-party tone, and he made his escape through the house while a trio of Cuban singers, who formed the crowning number of the entertainment, gathered the company in a denser circle about their guitars.
As he walked on aimlessly under the deep June shadows of Maplewood Avenue his mother’s last words formed an ironical accompaniment to his thoughts. “Now that things are comfortably settled—” he knew so well What that elastic epithet covered! Himself, for instance, ensconced in the impenetrable prosperity of his wonderful marriage; herself too (unconsciously, dear soul!), so happily tucked away in a cranny of that new and spacious life, and no more able to conceive why existing conditions should be disturbed than the bird in the eaves understands why the house should be torn down. Well—he had learned at last what his experience with his poor, valiant, puzzled mother might have taught him: that one must never ask from women
any view but the personal one, any measure of conduct
[ 178 ]
