Her mother said, in another sense, "I think you look a little pulled
down," and that made her and her father laugh again. She got to playing
with him, and poking him, and kissing him, in the way she had with him
when she was a girl; it was not so very long ago.
Her mother bore with this for awhile, and then she rose to go.
"You're not going to stay!" Louise protested.
"Not to-day, my dear. I've got some shopping to do before lunch."
"Well," said Louise, "I didn't suppose you would stay the first time,
such swells as you and papa. But I shall insist upon your coming
to-morrow when you've recovered a little from the blow this home of
virtuous poverty has given you, and I've had a chance to dust and
prepare for you. And I'll tell you what, mamma; Brice and I will come to
dinner with you to-night, and we won't take any refusal. We'll be with
you at seven. How will that do, papa?"
"That will do," said Hilary, with his arm round her waist, and they
kissed each other to clinch the bargain.
"And don't you two old things go away and put your frosty paws together
and say Brice and I are not happy. We do quarrel like cats and dogs
every now and then, but the rest of the time we're the happiest couple
in the universe, and an example to parents."
Hilary would have manifestly liked to stay and have her go on with her
nonsense, but his wife took him away.
When Maxwell came in she was so full of their visit that she did not ask
him what luck he had with his play, but told him at once they were going
to dine with her father and mother. "And I want you to brace up, my
dear, and not let them imagine anything."
"How, anything?" he asked, listlessly.
"Oh, nothing. About your play not going perfectly. I didn't think it
necessary to go into particulars with them, and you needn't. Just pass
it over lightly if they ask you anything about it. But they won't."
Maxwell did not look so happy as he might at the prospect of dining with
his wife's father and mother, but he did not say anything disagreeable,
and after an instant of silent resentment Louise did not say anything
disagreeable either. In fact, she devoted herself to avoiding any
displeasures with him, and she arrived with him at the Hilarys' hotel on
perfectly good terms, and, as far as he was concerned, in rather good
spirits.
Upon the whole, they had a very good time. Hilary made occasion to speak
to Maxwell of his letters to the _Abstract_, and told him they were
considered by far the best letters of the kind published anywhere, which
meant anywhere in Boston.
"You do that sort of thing so well, newspaper writing," he continued,
with a slyness that was not lost upon Louise, though Maxwell was
ignorant of his drift, "that I wonder you don't sometimes want to take
it up again."
"It's well enough," said Maxwell, who was gratified by his praise.
"By the way," said Hilary, "I met your friend, Mr. Ricker, the other
day, and he spoke most cordially about you. I fancy he would be very
glad to have you back."
"In the old way? I would rather be excused."
"No, from what he said, I thought he would like your writing in the
editorial page."
Maxwell looked pleased. "Ricker's always been very good, but he has very
little influence on the _Abstract_. He has no money interest in the
paper."
Hilary said, with the greatest artfulness, "I wonder he doesn't buy in.
I hear it can be done."
"Not by Ricker, for the best of all possible reasons," said Maxwell,
with a laugh.
Louise could hardly wait till she had parted from her father and mother
before she began on her husband: "You goose! Didn't you see that papa
was hinting at buying _you_ a share in the _Abstract_?"
"He was very modest about it, then; I didn't see anything of the kind."
"Oh, do you think _you_ are the only modest man? Papa is _very_ modest,
and he wouldn't make you an offer outright, unless he saw that you would
like it. But I know that was what he was coming to, and if you'll let
me--"
A sentiment of a reluctance rather than a refusal was what made itself
perceptible from his arm to hers, as they hurried along the street
together, and Louise would not press the question till he spoke again.
He did not speak till they were in the train on their way home. Then he
said, "I shouldn't care to have a money interest in a newspaper. It
would tie me up to it, and load me down with cares I should hate. It
wouldn't be my real life."
"Yes," said his wife, but when they got into their little apartment she
cast an eye, opened to its meanness and narrowness, over the common
belongings, and wondered if he would ask himself whether this was her
real life. But she did not speak, though she was apt to speak out most
things that she thought.