July was the month of Rhoda, August the month of Clarice. Julia Deering, of course, was always present. There was a strange bitterness to see the un-ideal intercourse of Rhoda and her husband. Since their marriage, Quincy had seen less of them than one does of a good acquaintance. He had not accepted Theodore Cram. But in his capacity of mate to Rhoda, he had idealized him. He did not consciously idealize his brilliant sister, but in his own quality of younger brother, he had accepted her as, of course, winningly adjusted. Now, came this sordid revelation. Rhoda and her husband could quarrel with each other, sneer at each other, remain indifferent to each other’s presence, and make a pleasure of each other’s irritations! These were all little things, of course. Sarah would smile in her rocker, folding her hands and declaring that such insignificant disagreements were inevitable. Josiah did not pay heed enough even to pass them over. To Marsden, they furnished amusement. Jonas, like his father, seemed temperamentally impervious, and Adelaide, as with most things that happened in the household, would be quickly aggrieved and as quickly her unruffled self again. To Quincy, these little quarrels--that Rhoda or Theodore were the last to take seriously or to remember--were soilings of dirt on a work of art. The analogy was perfect, since the thing soiled was indeed his handicraft. But they were more: they were a source of stirring the old waters. They led to speculations about Julia Deering and her husband; they compelled painful efforts to seek conclusions and to avoid conclusions, about the generality of men and women. It was unbearable to think of Professor Deering as so haggled and so upset. Yet, could one have guessed from the calm brow of Theodore Cram, from the smooth bosom of his magnificent sister, that such things could be? Was all of the world a hypocrite? Could there be worms beneath the surface of his marble masterpiece, before even the soil marred it to the eyes? It was a droll commentary upon justice that Quincy, at whom this couple snapped their fingers, should have been hurt by their delinquencies. Of course, in the old days, there had been murmurings at home about Rhoda. He recalled her as a child, screaming and scratching, carrying war upon Adelaide and Jonas. But always, it had been successful war--war with a quick and unqualified decision. Adelaide was always surrendering, Jonas was always being overwhelmed. That justified Rhoda. There had been a sweep of power in her place at home. She had dominated; she had wielded her sway. When she sneered at Adelaide or him, her sneer cut true. When she shot angry words at her mother, or Jonas, or her father, these words stood trembling, like an arrow, in the heart of the target. And with Marsden, there had been always a deference and a calm--like two great Powers at balance on a continent between their mutual dependencies.