chatting affably. When we were alone, I asked Tom how he could do it.
I know now that a man cannot hold an official position like Tom's and
ignore politically important people. But he only said rather
carelessly, and with a laugh, that it was one of the prices a man pays
for public office.


After that I noticed that my husband was known to nearly every one. He
had a glad hand and a smile for the public--because it was the public.
I watched to see if he had a slightly different smile for the people of
Back Bay and his own particular social class; sometimes I thought he
had, and it made me a little soul-sick.

I longed for a home for my baby and a few friends I could love and
really enjoy. I was not fitted to be the wife of a public man. It was
the poverty and crudeness of my youth that had made me intolerant. One
of the big lessons life has taught me is that people can be amiable,
tolerant, and even friendly, and still be sincere. The pleasantry of
social relations among the civilized peoples of the earth is a mere
garment we wear for our own protection and to cover our feelings. It is
the oil of the machinery of life. I have found that men and women who
take part in the big work of the earth wear that garment of civility and
graciousness, and yet have their strong friendships and even their
bitter enmities.

But I did not understand this when we went back to Europe. I only knew
that my husband was amiable to people he did not like, and I questioned
how deep his affection for me went. How much of his kindness to me was
just the easiest way and the manner of a gentleman?