“You don’t need to _seem_ young,” I interrupted. “How old do you think I am?” “About the same age as myself and Ruthita.” She laughed. “That couldn’t be; Dorrie is eight.” “Then I give up guessing.” “I’m twenty-seven. I was little more than a child, you see, when I married.” “Mother married early,” said Ruthita, “and my papa was only twenty at the time. She says that early marriages turn out happiest.” Vi made no answer. The silence grew awkward. We could almost hear one another’s thoughts trying to hide. Why had she explained in that tone of half-apology, “I was little more than a child; you see, when I married.” Why didn’t she say something now? Was it because an early marriage had proved for her disastrous? Then, if it had, what moral obligation separated us? Who was this husband who could dispense with her for a year, and yet had the power to stretch out his arm across the Atlantic and thrust me aside? She leant forward. The light from the street-lamp kindled her face and smoldered in her hair. She had the wistful, rapt expression of a young girl, ignorant as yet of the bitter-sweet of love, who dreams of an ideal lover. I felt then that her soul was virgin; it had never been a man’s possession. It was almost mine. Ruthita’s remark about the happiness of early marriages was forgotten, when Vi returned to the subject. “They may be sometimes,” she said, speaking doubtfully. She caught my eye resting on her. Conscious that her qualification had divulged a secret, she hurried into an implied defense of her husband. “I had a letter from Mr. Carpenter this morning. He’s lonely. He says he can’t bear to be without me any longer. He wants me to return home at once. He’s not seen Dorrie for nearly a year. He’s afraid she’ll forget him entirely. If I don’t go to him, he says he’ll come and fetch me. It’s been horrid of me to stay away so long. When we left, we only intended to be gone for three months. Somehow the time lengthened. I wanted to see so much. He’s been too easy with me. He’s been awfully kind. He always has been kind. He treats me like a spoilt child.” She had been speaking so eagerly and hurriedly that she had not heard the creaking of the stairs. Through the darkness I could see my grandmother standing in the doorway. Vi turned to Ruthita with a pretense of gaiety, “No wonder you English don’t understand us. Don’t you think that American husbands are very patient?” “I’m sure I do,” said Ruthita. “What makes them so different from English husbands?” “They love their wives.” It was impossible to tell from the bantering tone in Vi’s voice, whether she spoke the last words in cynicism or sincerity.