indifferent to a
theatre invitation. "She hasn't been the same since she came home. I
should not have let her go west alone."

The doctor looked up mildly from his paper. It was the custom of the
doctor to look up mildly when Mrs. Hardy made a statement demanding
some form of recognition. From the wide initiation into domestic
affairs which his profession had given him, Dr. Hardy had long since
ceased to look for the absolute in woman. He had never looked for it
in man. He realized that in Mrs. Hardy he did not possess a perfect
mate, but he was equally convinced that in no other woman would he have
found a perfect mate, and he accepted his lot with the philosophy of
his sixty years. If Mrs. Hardy, in some respects, failed to measure up
to his standard of the ideal, he found it true nevertheless that she
had many admirable qualities. Granting that in his matrimonial
adventure he might possibly have done somewhat better, fairness
compelled the admission that he might also have done very much worse.
And being, as has been hinted, something of a philosopher, he had
sought, whenever possible, to harmonize his life with hers; and when
that was impossible, at least to keep what pressure he might upon the
soft pedal. So instead of reminding his wife that Irene had not been
alone when she went west he remarked, very mildly, that the girl was
growing older.

Mrs. Hardy found in this remark occasion to lay down the book she had
been holding, and to sit upright in a rigidity of intense disapproval.
Dr. Hardy was aware that this was entirely a theatrical attitude,
assumed for the purpose of imposing upon him a proper humility. He had
experienced it many, many times. And he knew that his statement,
notwithstanding its obviousness, was about to be challenged.

"Dr. Hardy," said his wife, after the lapse of an appropriate period,
"do you consider that an intelligent remark?"

"It has the advantage of truthfulness," returned the doctor,
complacently. "It is susceptible of demonstration."

"I should think this is a matter of sufficient interest to the family
to be discussed seriously," retorted Mrs. Hardy, who had an unfortunate
habit of becoming exasperated by her husband's good humour. She had
none of his philosophy, and she mistook his even temper for
indifference. "Irene is our only child, and before your very eyes you
see her--you see her--" Mrs. Hardy's fears were too nebulous to enable
her to complete the se