at home with dad on the ranch as he was in London. "The fault is with
you," he said. "You 're not adaptable, and you don't try to be."

Tom did n't understand. He never did. In all the years together, which
he made so rich and happy, Tom never understood how hard and bitter a
school was that first year of my married life. But Tom did try to give
me a good time in London. He took me to interesting places and we were
entertained by a number of people, mostly ponderous and stupid. Tom did
not suggest that we entertain in our turn. I think he felt I was not
ready for it, although even in after years, when we talked frankly about
many things, he would never admit this.

I shall never forget my first week-end party in England. I was not
well, and Tom, manlike, felt sure the change, a trip down to Essex and
new people, would do me good. The thought of the country and a visit
with some good simple country folk appealed to me too, so I packed the
bags and met Tom at Victoria Station at eleven o'clock. Alas! It is a
far cry from a Montana ranch to a gentleman's estate in England! My
vision of a quiet visit "down on a farm" vanished the minute we stepped
off the train. Liveried coachmen collected our baggage. They seemed to
be discussing something; then I heard Tom say: "I guess that 's all.
I 'll wire back for the rest of it."


We were led to a handsome cart drawn by a fine tandem team, and Tom and
I were alone for a minute.

"My God, Mary!" he burst out, "didn't you bring any clothes for us?"

"I certainly have," I retorted, sure I was in the right this time.