in.

The table was cheerful with apples and bread and eggs. Helen handed
Willoughby the butter, and as she did so cast her eye on him and
reflected, "And she married you, and she was happy, I suppose."

She went off on a familiar train of thought, leading on to all kinds
of well-known reflections, from the old wonder, why Theresa had married
Willoughby?

"Of course, one sees all that," she thought, meaning that one sees that
he is big and burly, and has a great booming voice, and a fist and a
will of his own; "but--" here she slipped into a fine analysis of him
which is best represented by one word, "sentimental," by which she meant
that he was never simple and honest about his feelings. For example, he
seldom spoke of the dead, but kept anniversaries with singular pomp.
She suspected him of nameless atrocities with regard to his daughter, as
indeed she had always suspected him of bullying his wife. Naturally she
fell to comparing her own fortunes with the fortunes of her friend, for
Willoughby's wife had been perhaps the one woman Helen called friend,
and this comparison often made the staple of their talk. Ridley was a
scholar, and Willoughby was a man of business. Ridley was bringing out
the third volume of Pindar when Willoughby was launching his first ship.
They built a new factory the very year the commentary on Aristotle--was
it?--appeared at the University Press. "And Rachel," she looked at
her, meaning, no doubt, to decide the argument, which was otherwise too
evenly balanced, by declaring that Rachel was not comparable to her
own children. "She really might be six years old," was all she said,
however, this judgment referring to the smooth unmarked outline of the
girl's face, and not condemning her otherwise, for if Rachel were ever