She too had had a hard day, he recalled, a day all filled with
turbulence, with problems and with vexing toil, in her enormous family. And
he felt he could not blame her for not being of more help at home. Still,
he had been disappointed of late in her manner toward her sister. He had
hoped she would draw closer to Edith, now that again they were living
together in their old home where they had been born. But no, it had worked
just the opposite way. They were getting upon each other's nerves. Why
couldn't she make overtures, small kindly proffers of help and advice and
sympathy, the womanly things?
From his room he heard her knock softly at the same door he had closed. And
he heard her low clear voice:
"Are you there, Edith dear?" He listened a moment intently, but he could
not hear the reply. Then Deborah said, "Oh, you poor thing. I'm awfully
sorry. Edith--don't bother to come downstairs--let me bring you up your
supper." A pause. "I wish you would. I'd love to."
He heard Deborah come by his door and go up the second flight of stairs to
the room she had taken on the third floor.
"I was wrong," he reflected, "she has been trying--but it doesn't do any
good. Women simply haven't it in 'em to see each other's point of view.
Deborah doesn't admire Edith--she can't, she only pities her and puts her
down as out of date. And Edith feels that, and it gets her riled, and she
sets herself like an angry old hen against all Deborah's new ideas.
Pages:
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233