Oh, I
can't tell exactly why! Just the way he talks about her and--doesn't
talk about her. And then there's Harriet. She came home from Washington
and stayed three days with Frederica and then went away again. She kept
house for him while Rose was laid up, and why shouldn't she be doing it
now, except that she's perhaps spoken her mind a little too freely and
Rodney doesn't want her around? There'd be no nonsense about Harriet,
you could count on that."
"It would be like Rose," said John, "to tell him herself. It wouldn't be
like her, when you come to think of it, to do anything else."
"Oh, yes, she'd tell him," said Violet. "If she had some virtuous
woman-suffrage reason, she'd do more than tell him. She'd rub it in. Of
course he knows. Well, what shall we do about that?"
"Same vote," said John Williamson; "shut up. Certainly if he knows, that
lets us out."
But Violet wasn't satisfied. "That's the easiest thing, certainly," she
said, "but I don't believe it's right. I think the people who know him
best, ought to know--just a few, the people he still drops in on, like
the Crawfords, and the Wests, and Eleanor and James Randolph; just so
that they could--well, _not_ know completely enough; so that they
wouldn't, innocently, you know, say ghastly things to him.
Pages:
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643