"It's an acquired taste," he said.

"I never had any time to acquire tastes. I kept what the Lord gave
me," said Sylvia, but she smiled. She was delighted because Horace
had taken a second piece of pie.

"I didn't know as you'd relish our fare after living in a Boston
hotel all your vacation," said she.

"People can talk about hotel tables all they want to," declared
Horace. "Give me home cooking like yours every time. I haven't eaten
a blessed thing that tasted good since I went away."

Henry and Sylvia looked lovingly at Horace. He was a large man,
blond, with a thick shock of fair hair, and he wore gray tweeds
rather loose for him, which had always distressed Sylvia. She had
often told Henry that it seemed to her if he would wear a nice suit
of black broadcloth it would be more in keeping with his position as
high-school principal. He wore a red tie, too, and Sylvia had an
inborn conviction that red was not to be worn by fair people, male or
female.

However, she loved and admired Horace in spite of these minor
drawbacks, and had a fiercely maternal impulse of protection towards
him. She was convinced that every mother in East Westland, with a
marriageable daughter, and every daughter, had matrimonial designs
upon him; and she considered that none of them were good enough for
him. She did not wish him to marry in any case. She had suspicions
about young women whom he might have met while on his vacation.