THE ECHOES IN THE EAST CANYON.
LIONEL certainly did redden when Johnnie's message was delivered to him.
The quick-eyed Elsie noted it and darted a look at Clover, but Clover
only shook her head slightly in return. Each sister adhered to her own
opinion.
They were very desirous that the High Valley should make a favorable
impression on Dorry, for it was his first visit to them. The others had
all been there except Katy, and she had seen Cheyenne and St. Helen's,
but to Dorry everything west of the Mississippi was absolutely new. He
was a very busy person in these days, and quite the success of the Carr
family in a moneyed point of view. The turn for mechanics which he
exhibited in boyhood had continued, and determined his career.
Electrical science had attracted his attention in its earlier,
half-developed stages; he had made a careful study of it, and qualified
himself for the important position which he held under the company,
which was fast revolutionizing the lighting and street-car system of
Burnet, now growing to be a large manufacturing centre. This was doing
well for a young fellow not quite twenty-five, and his family were very
proud of him. He was too valuable to his employers to be easily spared,
and except for the enforced leisure of the grippe it might probably have
been years before he felt free to make his sisters in Colorado a visit,
in which case nothing would have happened that did happen.
"Dear, steady old Sobersides!" said Elsie, as she spread a fresh cover
over the shelf which did duty for a bureau in the Bachelors' Room; "I
wonder what he will think of it all. I'm afraid he will be scandalized
at our scrambling ways, and our having no regular church, and consider
us a set of half-heathen Bohemians."
"I don't believe it. Dorry has too much good sense, and has seen too
much of the world among business men to be easily shocked. And our
little Sunday service is very nice, I think; Geoff reads so
reverently,--and for sermons, we have our pick of the best there are."
"I know, and I like them dearly myself; but I seem to feel that Dorry
will miss the pulpit and sitting in a regular pew. He's rather that sort
of person, don't you think?"
"You are too much inclined to laugh at Dorry," said Clover, reprovingly,
"and he doesn't deserve it of you. He's a thoroughly good, sensible
fellow, and has excellent abilities, papa says,--not brilliant, but very
sound. I don't like to have you speak so of him."
"Why, Clovy--my little Clovy, I almost believe you are scolding me! Let
me look at you,--yes, there's quite a frown on your forehead, and your
mouth has the firm look of grandpapa Carr's daguerreotype. I'll be
good,--really I will. Don't fire again,--I've 'come down' like the coon
in the anecdote. Dorry's a dear, and you are another, and I'm ever so
glad he's coming; but really, it's not in human nature not to laugh at
the one solemn person in a frivolous family like ours, now is it?"
"See that you behave yourself, then, and I'll not scold you any more,"
replied Clover, magisterially, and ignoring the last question. She
marred the effect of her lecture by kissing Elsie as she spoke; but it
was hard to resist the temptation, Elsie was so droll and coaxing, and
so very pretty.
They expected to find Dorry still something of an invalid, and made
preparations accordingly; but there was no sign of debility in his jump
from the carriage or his run up the steps to greet them. He was a little
thinner than usual, but otherwise seemed quite himself.
"It's the air," explained Johnnie, "this blessed Western air! He was
forlorn when we left Burnet, and _so_ tired when we got to Chicago; but
after that he improved with every mile, and when we reached Denver this
morning he seemed fresher than when we started. I do think Colorado air
the true elixir of life."
"It is quite true, what she says. I feel like a different man already,"
added Dorry. "Clover, you look a little pulled down yourself. Was it
nursing Miss What's-her-name?"
"I'm all right. Another day or two will quite rest me. I came home only
day before yesterday, you see. How delicious it is to have you both
here! Dorry dear, you must have some beef-tea directly,--Euphane has a
little basin of it ready,--and dinner will be in about an hour."
"Beef-tea! What for? I don't need anything of the sort, I assure you.
Roast mutton, which I seem to smell in the distance, is much more in my
line. I want to look about and see your house. What do you call that
snow-peak over there? This is a beautiful place of yours, I declare."
"Papa would open his eyes if he could see him," remarked Johnnie,
confidentially, when she got her sisters to herself a little later.
"It's like a miracle the way he has come up. He was so dragged and
miserable and so _very_ cross only three days ago. Now, you dear things,
let me look at you both. Are you quite well? How are the
brothers-in-law? Where are the babies, and what have you done with Miss
Young?"
"The brothers-in-law are all right. They will be back presently. There
is a round-up to-day, which was the reason we sent Isadore in with the
carriage; no one else could be spared. The babies are having their
supper,--you will see them anon,--and Imogen has gone for a fortnight to
St. Helen's."
"Oh!" Johnnie turned aside and began to take down her hair. "Mr. Young
is with her, I suppose."
"No, indeed, he is here, and staying with us. You will see him at
dinner."
"Oh!" said Johnnie again. There was a difference between these two
"ohs," which Elsie's quick ear detected.
"Please unlock that valise," went on Johnnie, "and take out the dress
on top. This I have on is too dreadfully dusty to be endured."
Joanna Carr had grown up very pretty; many people considered her the
handsomest of the four sisters. Taller than any of them except Katy, and
of quite a different build, large, vigorous, and finely formed, she had
a very white skin, hair of pale bronze-brown, and beautiful velvety dark
eyes with thick curling lashes. She had a turn for dress too, and all
colors suited her. The woollen gown of cream-yellow which she now put on
seemed exactly what was needed to throw up the tints of her hair and
complexion; but she would look equally well on the morrow in blue. With
quick accustomed fingers she whisked her pretty locks into a series of
artlessly artful loops, with little blowing rings about the forehead,
and stuck a bow in here and a pin there, talking all the time, and
finally caught little Phillida up in her strong young arms, and ran
downstairs just in time to greet the boys as they dismounted at the
door, and shake hands demurely with Lionel Young, who came with them.
All three had raced down from the very top of the Upper Valley at
breakneck speed, to be in time to welcome the travellers.
There is always one moment, big with fate, when processes begin to take
place; when the first fine needle of crystallization forms in the
transparent fluid; when the impulse of the jellying principle begins to
work on the fruit-juice, and the frost principle to inform the water
atoms. These fateful moments are not always perceptible to our dull
apprehensions, but none the less do they exist; and they are apt to take
us by surprise, because we have not detected the fine gradual chain of
preparation which has made ready for them.
I think one of these fateful moments occurred that evening, as Lionel
Young held Joanna Carr's hand, and his straight-forward English eyes
poured an ardent beam of welcome into hers. They had seen a good deal of
each other two years before, but neither was prepared to be quite so
glad to meet again. They did not pause to analyze or classify their
feelings,--people rarely do when they really feel; but from that night
their attitude toward each other was changed, and the change became more
apparent with every day that followed.
As these days went on, bright, golden days, cloudless, and full of the
zest and snap of the nearing cold, Dorry grew stronger and stronger. So
well did he feel that after the first week or so he began to allude to
himself as quite recovered, and to show an ominous desire to get back to
his work; but this suggestion was promptly scouted by everybody,
especially by John, who said she had come for six weeks at least, and
six weeks at least she should stay,--and as much longer as she could;
and that Dorry as her escort _must_ stay too, no matter how well he
might feel.
"Besides," she argued, "there's all your life before you in which to dig
away at dynamos and things, and you may never be in Colorado again. You
wouldn't have the heart to disappoint Clover and Elsie and hurry back,
when there's no real necessity. They are so pleased to have a visit from
you."
"Oh, I'll stay! I'll certainly stay," said Dorry. "You shall have your
visit out, John; only, when a fellow feels as perfectly well as I do, it
seems ridiculous for him to be sitting round with his hands folded,
taking a mountain cure which he doesn't need."
Autumn is the busiest season for cattlemen everywhere, which made it the
more singular that Lionel Young should manage to find so much time for
sitting and riding with Johnnie, or taking her to walk up the steepest
and loneliest canyons. They were together in one way or another half the
day at least; and during the other half Johnnie's face wore always a
pre-occupied look, and was dreamily happy and silent. Even Clover began
to perceive that something unusual was in the air, something that seemed
a great deal too good to be true. She and Elsie held conferences in
private, during which they hugged each other, and whispered that "If!
whenever!--if ever!-- Papa would surely come out and live in the
Valley. He never could resist _three_ of his girls all at once." But
they resolved not to say one word to Johnnie, or even _look_ as if they
suspected anything, lest it should have a discouraging effect.
"It never does to poke your finger into a bird's nest," observed Elsie,
with a sapient shake of the head. "The eggs always addle if you do, or
the young birds refuse to hatch out; and of course in the case of
turtle-doves it would be all the more so. 'Lay low, Bre'r Fox,' and wait
for what happens. It all promises delightfully, only I don't see
exactly, supposing this ever comes to anything, how Imogen Young is to
be disposed of."
"We won't cross that bridge till we come to it," said Clover; but all
the same she did cross it in her thoughts many times. It is not in human
nature to keep off these mental bridges.
At the end of the fortnight Imogen returned in very good looks and
spirits; and further beautified by a pretty autumn dress of dark blue,
which Mrs. Hope had persuaded her to order, and over the making of
which she herself had personally presided. It fitted well, and set off
to admiration the delicate pink and white of Imogen's skin, while the
new warmth of affection which had come into her manner was equally
becoming.
"Why didn't you say what a pretty girl Miss Young was?" demanded Dorry
the very first evening.
"I don't know, I'm sure. She looks better than she did before she was
ill, and she's very nice and all that, but we never thought of her being
exactly pretty."
"I can't think why; she is certainly much better-looking than that Miss
Chase who was here the other day. I should call her decidedly handsome;
and she seems easy to get on with too."
"Isn't it odd?" remarked Elsie, as she retailed this conversation to
Clover. "Imogen never seemed to me so very easy to get on with, and
Dorry never before seemed to find it particularly easy to get on with
any girl. I suppose they happen to suit, but it is very queer that they
should. People are always surprising you in that way."
What with John's recently developed tendency to disappear into canyons
with Lionel Young, with the boys necessarily so occupied, and their own
many little tasks and home duties, there had been moments during the
fortnight when Clover and Elsie had found Dorry rather heavy on their
hands. He was not much of a reader except in a professional way, and
still less of a horseman; so the two principal amusements of the Valley
counted for little with him, and they feared he would feel dull, or
fancy himself neglected. With the return of Imogen these apprehensions
were laid at rest. Dorry, if left alone, promptly took the trail in the
direction of the "Hutlet," returning hours afterward looking beaming and
contented, to casually mention by way of explanation that he had been
reading aloud to Miss Young, or that he and Miss Young had been taking a
walk.
"It's remarkably convenient," Elsie remarked one evening; "but it's just
as remarkably queer. What can they find to say to each other do you
suppose?"
If Dorry had not been Dorry, besides being her brother, she would
probably have arrived at a conclusion about the matter much sooner than
she did. Quick people are too apt to imagine that slow people have
nothing to say, or do not know how to say it when they have; while all
the time, for slow and quick alike, there is the old, old story for each
to tell in his own way, which makes the most halting lips momentarily
eloquent, and which both to speaker and listener seems forever new,
fresh, wonderful, and inexhaustibly interesting.
In a retired place like the High Valley intimacies flourish with
wonderful facility and quickness. A month in such a place counts for
more than half a year amid the confusions and interruptions of the city.
Dorry had been struck by Imogen that first evening. He had never got on
very well with girls, or known much about them; there was a delightful
novelty in his present sensations. There was not a word as to the need
of getting back to business after she dawned on his horizon. Quite the
contrary. Two weeks, three, four went by; the original limit set for the
visit was passed, the end of his holiday drew near, and still he stayed
on contentedly, and every day devoted himself more and more to Imogen
Young.
She, on her part, was puzzled and fluttered, but not unhappy. She was
quite alive to Dorry's merits; he was her first admirer, and it was a
new and agreeable feature of life to have one, "like other girls," as
she told herself. Lionel was too much absorbed in his own affairs to
notice or interfere; so the time went on, and the double entanglement
wound itself naturally and happily to its inevitable conclusion.
It was in the beautiful little ravine to the east, which Clover had
named "Penstamen Canyon," from the quantity of those flowers which grew
there, that Dorry made his final declaration. There were no penstamens
in the valley now, no yuccas or columbines, only a few belated autumn
crocuses and the scarlet berried mats of kinnikinick remained; but the
day was as golden-bright as though it were still September.
"We have known each other only four weeks," said Dorry, going straight
to the point in his usual direct fashion; "and if I were going to stay
on I should think I had no right, perhaps, to speak so soon,--for your
sake, mind, not for my own; I could not be surer about my feelings for
you if we had been acquainted for years. But I have to go away before
long, back to my home and my work, and I really cannot go without
speaking. I must know if there is any chance for me."
"I like you very much," said Imogen, demurely.
"Do you? Then perhaps one day you might get to like me better still. I'd
do all that a man could to make you happy if you would, and I think
you'd like Burnet to live in. It's a big place, you know, with all the
modern improvements,--not like this, which, pretty as it is, would be
rather lonely in the winters, I should think. There are lots of nice
people in Burnet, and there's Johnnie, whom you already know, and my
father,--you'd be sure to like my father."
"Oh, don't go on in this way, as if it were only for the advantages of
the change that I should consent. It would be for quite different
reasons, if I did." Then, after a short pause, she added, "I wonder what
they will say at Bideford."
It was an indirect yes, but Dorry understood that it _was_ yes.
"Then you'll think of it? You don't refuse me? Imogen, you make me very
happy."
Dorry did look happy; and as bliss is beautifying, he looked handsome as
well. His strong, well-knit figure showed to advantage in the rough
climbing-suit which he wore; his eyes sparkled and beamed as he looked
at Imogen.
"May I talk with Lionel about it?" he asked, persuasively. "He
represents your father over here, you know."
"Yes, I suppose so." She blushed a little, but looked frankly up at
Dorry. "Poor Lion! it's hard lines for him, and I feel guilty at the
idea of deserting him so soon; but I know your sisters will be good to
him, and I can't help being glad that you care for me. Only there's one
thing I must say to you, Theodore [no one since he was baptized had ever
called Dorry 'Theodore' till now!], for I don't want you to fancy me
nicer than I really am. I was horribly stiff and prejudiced when I first
came out. I thought everything American was inferior and mistaken, and
all the English ways were best; and I was nasty,--yes, really very nasty
to your sisters, especially dear Clover. I have learned her worth now,
and I love her and America, and I shall love it all the better for your
sake; but all the same, I shall probably disappoint you sometimes, and
be stiff and impracticable and provoking, and you will need to have
patience with me: it's the price you must pay if you marry an English
wife,--this particular English wife, at least."
"It's a price that I'll gladly pay," cried Dorry, holding her hand
tight. "Not that I believe a word you say; but you are the dearest,
truest, honestest girl in the world, and I love you all the better for
being so modest about yourself. For me, I'm just a plain, sober sort of
fellow. I never was bright like the others, and there's nothing in the
least 'subtle' or hard to understand about me; but I don't believe I
shall make the worse husband for that. It's only in French novels that
dark, inscrutable characters are good for daily use."
"Indeed, I don't want an inscrutable husband. I like you much better as
you are." Then, after a happy pause, "Isabel Templestowe--she's Geoff's
sister, you know, and my most intimate friend at home--predicted that I
should marry over here, but I never supposed I should. It didn't seem
likely that any one would want me, for I'm not pretty or interesting,
like your sisters, you know."
"Oh, I say!" cried Dorry, "haven't I been telling you that you interest
me more than any one in the world ever did before? I never saw a girl
whom I considered could hold a candle to you,--certainly not one of my
own sisters. You don't think your people at home will make any
objections, do you?"
"No, indeed; they'll be very pleased to have me settled, I should think.
There are a good many of us at home, you know."
Meanwhile, a little farther up the same canyon, but screened from
observation by a projecting shoulder of rock, another equally
satisfactory conversation was going on between another pair of lovers.
Johnnie and Lionel had strolled up there about an hour before Dorry and
Imogen arrived. They had no idea that any one else was in the ravine.
"I think I knew two years ago that I cared more for you than any one
else," Lionel was saying.
"Did you? Perhaps the faintest suspicion of such a thing occurred to me
too."
"I used to keep thinking about you at odd minutes all day, when I was
working over the cattle and everything, and I always thought steadily
about you at night when I was falling asleep."
"Very strange, certainly."
"And the moment you came and I saw you again, it flashed upon me what it
meant; and I perceived that I had been desperately in love with you all
along without knowing it."
"Still stranger."
"Don't tease me, darling Johnnie,--no, Joan; I like that better than
Johnnie. It makes me think of Joan d'Arc. I shall call you that, may I?"
"How can I help it? You have a big will of your own, as I always knew.
Only don't connect me with the ark unless you spell it, and don't call
me Jonah."
"Never! He was the prophet of evil, and you are the good genius of my
life."
"I'm not sure whether I am or not. It plunges you into all sorts of
embarrassments to think of marrying me. Neither of us has any money.
You'll have to work hard for years before you can afford a wife,--and
then there's your sister to be considered."
"I know. Poor Moggy! But she came out for my sake. She will probably be
only too glad to get home again whenever--other arrangements are
possible. Will you wait a while for me, my sweet?"
"I don't mind if I do."
"How long will you wait?"
"Shall we say ten years?"
"Ten years! By Jove, no! We'll say no such thing! But eighteen
months,--we'll fix it at eighteen months, or two years at farthest. I
can surely fetch it in two years."
"Very well, then; I'll wait two years with pleasure."
"I don't ask you to wait _with pleasure_! That's carrying it a little
too far!"
"I don't seem able to please you, whatever I say," remarked Johnnie,
pretending to pout.
"Please me, darling Joan! You please me down to the ground, and you
always did! But if you'll wait two years,--not with pleasure, but with
patience and resignation,--I'll buckle to with a will and earn my
happiness. Your father won't be averse, will he?"
"Poor papa! Yes, he _is_ very averse to having his girls marry, but he's
somewhat hardened to it. I'm the last of the four, you know, and I think
he would give his blessing to you rather than any one else, because you
would bring me out here to live near the others. Perhaps he will come
too. It is the dream of Clover's and Elsie's lives that he should."
"That would be quite perfect for us all."
"You say that to please me, I know, but you will say it with all your
heart if ever it happens, for my father is the sweetest man in the
world, and the wisest and most reasonable. You will love him dearly. He
has been father and mother and all to us children. And there's my sister
Katy,--you will love her too."
"I have seen her once, you remember."
"Yes; but you can't find Katy out at once,--there is too much of her.
Oh, I've ever so many nice relations to give you. There's Ned
Worthington; he's a dear,--and Cousin Helen. Did I ever tell you about
her? She's a terrible invalid, you know, almost always confined to her
bed or sofa, and yet she has been one of the great influences of our
lives,--a sort of guardian angel, always helping and brightening and
cheering us all, and starting us in right directions. Oh, you must know
her. I can't think how you ever will, for of course she can never come
to Colorado; but somehow it shall be managed. Now tell me about _your_
people. How many are there of you?"
"Eleven, and I scarcely remember my oldest brother, he went away from
home so long ago. Jim was my chum,--he's no end of a good fellow. He's
in New Zealand now. And Beatrice--that's the next girl to Imogen--is
awfully nice too, and there are one or two jolly ones among the smaller
kids. Oh, you'll like them all, especially my mother. We'll go over
some day and make them a visit."
"That will be nice; but we shall have to wait till we grow rich before
we can take such a long journey. Lion, do you think by-and-by we could
manage to build another house, or move your cabin farther down the
Valley? I want to live nearer Clover and Elsie. You'll have to be away a
good deal, of course, as the other boys are, and a mile is 'a goodish
bit,' as Imogen would say. It would make all the difference in the world
if I had the sisters close at hand to 'put my lips to when so
dispoged.'"
"Why, of course we will. Geoff built the Hutlet, you know; I didn't put
any money into it. I chose the position because--well, the view was
good, and I didn't know how Moggy would hit it off with the rest, you
understand. I thought she might do better a little farther away; but
with you it's quite different of course. I dare say the Hutlet could be
moved; I'll talk to Geoff about it."
"I don't care how simple it is, so long as it is near the others," went
on Johnnie. "It's easy enough to make a simple house pretty and nice. I
am so glad that your house is in this valley, Lion."
A little pause ensued.
"What was that?" asked Johnnie, suddenly.
"What?"
"That sound? It seemed to come from down the canyon. Such a very odd
echo, if it was an echo!"
"What kind of a sound? I heard nothing."
"Voices, I should say, if it were not quite impossible that it could be
voices,--very low and hushed, as if a ghost were confabulating with
another ghost about a quarter of a mile away."
"Oh, that must be just a fancy," protested Lionel. "There isn't a living
soul within a mile of us."
[Illustration: "Voices, I should say, if it were not quite impossible
that it could be voices,--very low and hushed."--PAGE 260.]
And at the same moment Dorry, a couple of hundred feet distant, was
remarking to Imogen:--
"These canyons do have the most extraordinary echoes. There's the
strangest cooing and sibilating going on above."
"Wood pigeons, most probably; there are heaps of them hereabout."
Presently the pair from above, slowly climbing down the ravine
hand-in-hand, came upon the pair below, just rising from their seat to
go home. There was a mutual consternation in the four countenances
comical to behold.
"You here!" cried Imogen.
"And _you_ here!" retorted Lionel. "Why, we never suspected it. What
brought you up?--and Carr, too, I declare!"
"Why--oh--it's a pretty place," stammered Imogen. "Theodore--Mr. Carr, I
mean-- Now, Lionel, what _are_ you laughing at?"
"Nothing," said her brother, composing his features as best he could;
"only it's such a very odd coincidence, you know."
"Very odd indeed," remarked Dorry, gravely. The four looked at one
another solemnly and questioningly, and then--it was impossible to help
it--all four laughed.
"By Jove!" cried Lionel, between his paroxysms, "I do believe we have
all come up here on the same errand!"
"I dare say we have," remarked Dorry; "there were some extremely queer
echoes that came down to us from above."
"Not a bit queerer, I assure you, than some which floated up to us from
below," retorted Johnnie, recovering her powers of speech.
"We thought it was doves."
"And we were sure it was ghosts,--affectionate ghosts, you know, on
excellent terms with each other."
"Young, I want a word with you," said Dorry, drawing Lionel aside.
"And I want a word with you."
"And I want several words with you," cried Johnnie, brightly, putting
her arm through Imogen's. She looked searchingly at her.
"I'm going to be your sister," she said; "I've promised Lionel. Are you
going to be mine?"
"Yes,--I've promised Theodore--"
"Theodore!" cried Johnnie, with a world of admiration in her voice.
"Oh, you mean Dorry. We never call him that, you know."
"Yes, I know, but I prefer Theodore. Dorry seems a childish sort of name
for a grown man. Do you mean to say that you are coming out to the
Valley to live?"
"Yes, by-and-by, and you will come to Burnet; we shall just change
places. Isn't it nice and queer?"
"It is a sort of double-barrelled International Alliance," declared
Lionel. "Now let us go down and astonish the others."
The others _were_ astonished indeed. They were prepared for Johnnie's
confession, but had so little thought of Dorry's that for some time he
and Imogen stood by unheeded, waiting their turn at explanation.
"Why, Dorry," cried Elsie at last, "why are you standing on one side
like that with Miss Young? You don't look as surprised as you ought. Did
you hear the news before we did? Imogen dear,--it isn't such good news
for you as for us."
"Oh, yes, indeed it is. I am quite as happy in it as you can be."
"Ladies and gentlemen," cried Lionel, who was in topping spirits and
could not be restrained, "this shrinking pair also have a tale to tell.
It is a case of 'change partners all round and down the middle.' Let me
introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Theo--"
"Lion, you wretched boy, stop!" interrupted Johnnie. "That's not at all
the right way to do it. Let _me_ introduce them. Friends and countrymen,
allow the echoes of the Upper East Canyon to present to your favorable
consideration the echoes of the Lower East Canyon. We've all been
sitting up there, 'unbeknownst,' within a few feet of each other, and
none of us could account for the mysterious noises that we heard, till
we all started to come home, and met each other on the way down."
"What kind of noises?" demanded Elsie, in a suffocated voice.
"Oh, cooings and gurglings and soft murmurs of conversation and
whisperings. It was very unaccountable indeed, very!"
"Dorry," said Elsie, next day when she chanced to be alone with him,
"Would you mind if I asked you rather an impertinent question? You
needn't answer if you don't want to; but what was it that first put it
into your head to fall in love with Imogen Young? I'm very glad that you
did, you understand. She will make you a capital wife, and I'm going to
be very fond of her,--but still, I should just like to know."
"I don't know that I could tell you if I tried," replied her brother.
"How can a man explain that sort of thing? I fell in love because I was
destined to fall in love, I suppose. I liked her at the start, and
thought her pretty, and all that; and she seemed kind of lonely and left
out among you all. And then she's a quiet sort of girl, you know, not so
ready at talk as most, or so quick to pick at a fellow or trip him up.
I've always been the slow one in our family, you see, and by way of a
change it's rather refreshing to be with a woman who isn't so much
brighter than I am. The rest of you jump at an idea and off it again
while I'm gathering my wits together to see that there _is_ an idea.
Imogen doesn't do that, and it rather suits me that she shouldn't.
You're all delightful, and I'm very fond of you, I'm sure; but for a
wife I think I like some one more like myself."
"Of all the droll explanations that I ever heard, that is quite the
drollest," said Elsie to her husband afterward. "The idea of a man's
falling in love with a woman because she's duller than his own sisters!
Nobody but Dorry would ever have thought of it."