later she asked me where I had been, 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