He had felt profound disgust for the few wild oats he had
sown, and in his swift reaction he had overworshipped the girl, her beauty
and her purity, until in a delicate way of her own she had hinted that he
was going too far, that she, too, was human and a passionate lover of
living, in spite of her low quiet voice and her demure and sober eyes.
And what beginnings for Roger now, what a piling up of intimate joys,
surprises, shocks of happiness. There had come disappointments, too, sudden
severe little checks from his wife which had brought him occasional
questionings. This love had not been quite _all_ he had dreamed, this woman
not so ardent. He had glimpsed couples here and there that set him to
imagining more consuming passions. Here again he had not explored very
deep. But he had dismissed regrets like these with only a slight
reluctance. For if they had settled down a bit with the coming of their
children, their love had grown rich in sympathies and silent
understandings, in humorous enjoyment of their funny little daughters'
chattering like magpies in the genial old house. And they had looked
happily far ahead. What a woman she had been for plans. It had not been all
smooth sailing. There had come reverses in business, and at home one baby,
a boy, had died. But on they had gone and the years had swept by until he
had reached his forties. Absorbed in his growing business and in his
thriving family, it had seemed to Roger still as though he were just
starting out.
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