to Eleanor, whose effort to reinstate herself in the glories of the
little girl's imagination only resulted in still another and entirely
new feeling in Edith's mind--contempt.

"If she had a right to be mad at me yesterday--why isn't she mad
to-day?" Edith reasoned.

Eleanor was quick to feel the contempt. "I don't care for Edith," she
told Maurice, who looked surprised.

"She's only a child," he said.

Edith seemed especially a child now to Maurice, since he had embarked on
his job at Mercer. Not only was she unimportant to him, but, in spite of
his mortification at that scene on the road, his Saturday-night returns
to his wife were blowing the fires of his love into such a glory of
devotion, that Edith was practically nonexistent! His one thought was to
take Eleanor to Mercer. He wanted her all to himself! Also, he had a
vague purpose of being on his dignity with a lot of those Mercer people:
Eleanor's aunt, just back from Europe; Brown and Hastings--cubs! But
below this was the inarticulate feeling that, away from the Houghtons,
especially away from Edith, he might forget his impulse to use--for a
second time--that dreadful word "silly."

So, as the 20th of October approached--the day when they were to go back
to town--he felt a distinct relief in getting away from Green Hill. The
relief was general. Edith felt it, which was very unlike Edith, who had
always sniffled (in private) at Maurice's departure! And her father and
mother felt it: