Rose was not destitute either of imagination or sentiment. She
did not relish this constant weighing of Stephen in the balance:
he was too good to be weighed and considered. She longed to be
carried out of herself on a wave of rapturous assent, but
something seemed to hold her back,--some seed of discontent
with the man's environment and circumstances, some germ of
longing for a gayer, brighter, more varied life. No amount of
self-searching or argument could change the situation. She
always loved Stephen more or less: more when he was away from
her, because she never approved his collars nor the set of his
shirt bosom; and as he naturally wore these despised articles of
apparel whenever he proposed to her, she was always lukewarm
about marrying him and settling down on the River Farm. Still,
to-day she discovered in herself, with positive gratitude, a
warmer feeling for him than she had experienced before. He wore
a new and becoming gray flannel shirt, with the soft turnover
collar that belonged to it, and a blue tie, the color of his kind
eyes. She knew that he had shaved his beard at her request not
long ago, and that when she did not like the effect as much as
she had hoped, he had meekly grown a mustache for her sake; it
did seem as if a man could hardly do more to please an exacting
lady-love.

And she had admired him unreservedly when he pulled off his boots
and jumped into the river to save Alcestis Crambry's life,
without giving a single thought to his own. And was there ever,
after all, such a noble, devoted, unselfish fellow, or a better
brother? And would she not despise herself for rejecting him
simply because he was countrified, and because she longed to see
the world of the fashion-plates in the magazines?