She knew that men
marry women who in the estimation of onlooking relatives are
unworthy of them, and live happily ever afterwards, without deeming
it necessary to explain to those relatives how it comes about.
Now it happened that this woman--Jocelyn Gordon--was not one of
those who gracefully betray themselves at the right moment and are
immediately covered with a most becoming confusion. She was strong
to hold to her purpose, to subdue herself, to keep silent. And this
task she set herself, having thought it all carefully out in the
little flower-scented verandah, so full of pathetic association.
But it must be remembered that she in no wise seemed to see the
pathos in her own life. She was unconscious of romance. It was all
plain fact, and the plainest was her love for Jack Meredith.
Her daily life was in no perceptible way changed. Maurice Gordon
saw no difference. She had never been an hilarious person. Now she
went about her household, her kindnesses, and unobtrusive good works
with a quieter mien; but, when occasion or social duty demanded, she
seemed perhaps a little readier than before to talk of indifferent
topics, to laugh at indifferent wit. Those who have ears to hear
and eyes wherewith to see learn to distrust the laugh that is too
ready, the sympathy that flows in too broad a stream.
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