en, and when I told her she made no
comment. I came presently to the conclusion that this renewed intimacy
did not trouble her--which was what I wished to believe. Of course I had
gone to Nancy for a stimulation I failed to get at home, and it is the
more extraordinary, therefore, that I did not become more discontented
and restless: I suppose this was because I had grown to regard marriage
as most of the world regarded it, as something inevitable and humdrum, as
a kind of habit it is useless to try to shake off. But life is so full of
complexities and anomalies that I still had a real affection for Maude,
and I liked her the more because she didn't expect too much of me, and
because she didn't complain of my friendship with Nancy although I should
vehemently have denied there was anything to complain of. I respected
Maude. If she was not a squaw, she performed religiously the traditional
squaw duties, and made me comfortable: and the fact that we lived
separate mental existences did not trouble me because I never thought of
hers--or even that she had one. She had the children, and they seemed to
suffice. She never renewed her appeal for my confidence, and I forgot
that she had made it.

Nevertheless I always felt a tug at my heartstrings when June came around
and it was time for her and the children to go to Mattapoisett for the
summer; when I accompanied them, on the evening of their departure, to
the smoky, noisy station and saw deposited in the sleeping-car their
luggage and shawls and bundles. They always took the evening train to
Boston; it was the best. Tom and Susan were invariably there with candy
and toys to see them off--if Susan and her children had not already
gone--and at such moments my heart warmed to Tom. And I was astonished as
I clung to Matthew and Moreton and little Biddy at the affection that
welled up within me, saddened when I kissed Maude good-bye. She too was
sad, and always seemed to feel compunctions for deserting me.

"I feel so selfish in leaving you all alone!" she would say. "If it
weren't for the children--they need the sea air. But I know you don't
miss me as I miss you. A man doesn't, I suppose.... Please don't work so
hard, and promise me you'll come on and stay a long time. You can if you
want to. We shan't starve." She smiled. "That nice room, which is yours,
at the southeast corner, is always waiting for you. And you do like the
sea, and seeing the sail-boats in the morning."

I