As soon as she returned I saw that something was
wrong, but I asked no questions. During supper she was extraordinarily
preoccupied, and it was not until an hour or more afterward that she
came into my room.
"David," she said, "I can't understand some things."
"Isn't human nature doing what it ought to?" I asked.
But she was not to be joked with.
"David, that man's wife doesn't seem to be sorry because he comes home
drunken every week or two! I talked with her about it and what do you
think she said? She said she knew it was wrong, but she intimated that
when he was in that state she loved--liked--him all the better. Is it
believable? She said: 'Perhaps you won't understand--it's wrong, I know,
but when he comes home that way he seems so full of--life. He--he seems
to understand me better then!' She was heartbroken, one could see that,
but she would not admit it. I leave it to you, David, what can anyone do
with a woman like that? How is the man ever to overcome his habits?"
It is a strange thing, when we ask questions directly of life, how often
the answers are unexpected and confusing. Our logic becomes illogical!
Our stories won't turn out.
She told much more about her interview: the neat home, the bees in the
orchard, the well-kept garden.
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