surprise. Wilbur Edes loved his wife more comfortably than he loved
his children. He loved them a little uneasily. They were unknown
elements to him, and he sometimes wished that he had more time at
home, to get them firmly fixed in his comprehension. Without the
slightest condemnation of his wife, he had never regarded her as a
woman in whom the maternal was a distinguishing feature. He saw with
approbation the charming externals with which she surrounded their
offspring. It was a gratification to him to be quite sure that
Maida's hair ribbon would always be fresh and tied perkily, and that
Adelaide would be full of dainty little gestures copied from her
mother, but he had some doubts as to whether his wonderful Margaret
might not be too perfect in herself, and too engrossed with the
duties pertaining to perfection to be quite the proper manager of
imperfection and immaturity represented by childhood.

"How did you leave the children!" he inquired when they were in their
bedroom at the hotel, and he was fitting the yellow satin slippers to
his wife's slender silk shod feet.

"The children were as well as usual. I told Emma to put them to bed.
Do you think the orchids in the dining-room are the right shade,
Wilbur?"

"I am quite sure. I am glad that you told Emma to put them to bed."

"I always do. Mrs. George B. Slade is most unpleasantly puffed up."

"Why?"

"Oh, because she got Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder to speak to the club."