"Eleanor's mind," Henry Houghton said, "is exactly like a drum--sound
comes out of emptiness!"

"But Maurice seems to like the sound," Mrs. Houghton reminded him; "and
she loves him."

"She wants to monopolize him," her husband said; "I don't call that
love; I call it jealousy. It must be uncomfortable to be jealous," he
ruminated; "but the really serious thing about it is that it will bore
any man to death. Point that out to her, Mary! Tell her that jealousy
is self-love, plus the consciousness of your own inferiority to the
person of whom you are jealous. And it has the same effect on love that
water has on fire. My definition ought to be in a dictionary!" he added,
complacently.

"What sweet jobs you do arrange for me!" she said; "and as for your
definition, I can give you a better one--and briefer: 'Jealousy is Human
Natur'! But I don't believe Eleanor's jealous, Henry; she's only
conscious, poor girl! of Maurice's youth. But there is something I _am_
going to tell her...."

She told her the day before the bridal couple (Edith still reveled in
the phrase!) started for Mercer. "Come out into the orchard," Mary
Houghton called upstairs to Eleanor, "and help me gather windfalls for
jelly."

"I must pack Maurice's things," Eleanor called over the banisters,
doubtfully; "he's a perfect boy about packing; he put his boots in with
his collars."