Sara
imagined things. But I resented the aspersion of
blue-stockingness cast on Betty.
"When the time comes for Betty to be interested in beaux," I said
severely, "she will probably give them all due attention. Just
at present her head is a great deal better filled with books than
with silly premature fancies and sentimentalities. I'm a
critical old fellow--but I'm satisfied with Betty, Sara--
perfectly satisfied."
Sara sighed.
"Oh, I dare say she is all right, Stephen. And I'm really
grateful to you. I'm sure I could have done nothing at all with
her. It's not your fault, of course,--but I can't help wishing
she were a little more like other girls."
I galloped away from Glenby in a rage. What a blessing Sara had
not married me in my absurd youth! She would have driven me wild
with her sighs and her obtuseness and her everlasting
pink-and-whiteness. But there--there--there--gently! She was a
sweet, good-hearted little woman; she had made Jack happy; and
she had contrived, heaven only knew how, to bring a rare creature
like Betty into the world. For that, much might be forgiven her.
By the time I reached The Maples and had flung myself down in an
old, kinky, comfortable chair in my library I had forgiven her
and was even paying her the compliment of thinking seriously over
what she had said.
Was Betty really unlike other girls? That is to say, unlike them
in any respect wherein she should resemble them? I did not wish
this; although I was a crusty old bachelor I approved of girls,
holding them the sweetest things the good God has made.
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