"Well, anyway, what I mean is that she isn't like ordinary people, like
me--"

"Or Johnny," Edith broke in, earnestly.

"Johnny? Gosh! Why, Mrs. Houghton, things that don't touch most human
beings, affect her terribly. The dark, or thunderstorms, or--or
anything, makes her nervous. You understand?"

Mrs. Houghton said yes, she understood, but she would leave the rest of
the weeding to her assistants ... In the studio, dropping her dusty
garden gloves on a fresh canvas lying on the table, she almost wept:

"Henry, it is _too_ tragic! She is such a goose, and he is so silly
about her! What shall we do?"

"I'll tell you what not to do--spoil my new canvas! If you _really_ want
my advice:--tell Eleanor that the greatest compliment any husband can
pay his wife is contained in four words: 'You never bore me'; and that
if she isn't careful Maurice will never compliment her."

Down in the garden, no one was aware of any tragedy. "When I go to Fern
Hill," Edith said, "I'm going to tell all the girls _I know Eleanor_!
I'm 'ordinary,' too, beside her. And so is mother."

Maurice agreed. "We are all crude, compared to her."

Edith sighed with joy; if she had had any inclination to be contemptuous
of Eleanor's timidity, it vanished when it was pointed out to her that
it was really a sign of the Bride's infinite superiority.... So the