"She's fine, I admit. But I can't see how under the circumstances any of
us could have acted differently." And Nancy not replying, I continued:
"She has made up her mind to go,--I suppose I could prevent it by taking
extreme measures,--but what good would it do? Isn't it, after all, the
most sensible, the only way out of a situation that has become
impossible? Times have changed, Nancy, and you yourself have been the
first to admit it. Marriage is no longer what it was, and people are
coming to look upon it more sensibly. In order to perpetuate the
institution, as it was, segregation, insulation, was the only course. Men
segregated their wives, women their husbands,--the only logical method of
procedure, but it limited the individual. Our mothers and fathers thought
it scandalous if husband or wife paid visits alone. It wasn't done. But
our modern life has changed all that. A marriage, to be a marriage,
should be proof against disturbing influences, should leave the
individuals free; the binding element should be love, not the force of an
imposed authority. You seemed to agree to all this."
"Yes, I know," she admitted. "But I cannot think that happiness will ever
grow out of unhappiness."
"But Maude will not be unhappy," I insisted. "She will be happier, far
happier, now that she has taken the step."
"Oh, I wish I thought so," Nancy exclaimed. "Hugh, you always believe
what you want to believe. And the children. How can you bear to part with
them?"