But Harry apparently was as content as ever with doing nothing. He arose
at ten, dined at seven, and went to bed between midnight and sunrise.
There was some committee meetings and much mail, but Mary was admitted
to knowledge of none of these. The obvious step, of course, would be to
set him at work; but from this undertaking Mary unconsciously recoiled.
She had already recognized that while her tastes and her husband's were
mostly alike, they were also strikingly different in many respects. They
agreed in the daintiness of things, the elegance of detail; but they did
not agree always as to the things themselves. Given the picture, they
would choose the same frame--but they would not choose the same picture.
They liked the same voice, but not the same song; the same company, but
not the same conversation. Of course, Mary reflected, frowning at the
flowers--of course, this must always be so when two human beings are
thrown into new and intimate association. In time they would grow to
sweet communion; only, she hoped the communion would be on tastes nearer
hers than those he sometimes manifested.
She turned impatiently from the window with a feeling of loneliness. But
why lonely? She idly fingered a new book on the table and then put it
down sharply. There had been several attempts at reading aloud between
them some evenings ago, and this book reminded her of them.
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