It was not by any means negative, for no part of his amiable nature was better developed than regard for his own care and comfort; but it was not strong enough to give him Henderson’s capacity for hard work and even self-denial, nor Mavick’s cool, persevering skill in making a way for himself in the world.  Why was not Edith his confidante?  His respect for her was undoubted; his love for her was unquestioned; his trust in her was absolute.  And yet with either Carmen or Miss Tavish he fell into confidential revelations of himself which instinctively he did not make to Edith.  The explanation of this is on the surface, and it is the key to half the unhappiness in domestic life.  He felt that Edith was not in sympathy with the associations and the life he was leading.  The pitiful and hopeless part of it is that if she had been in sympathy with them, Jack would have gone on in his frivolous career at an accelerated pace.  It was not absence of love, it was not unfaithfulness, that made Jack enjoy the hours he spent with Carmen, or with the pleasing and not too fastidious Miss Tavish, with a zest that was wanting to his hours at home.  If he had been upon a sinking steamboat with the three women, and could have saved only one of them, he would not have had a moment’s hesitation in rescuing Edith and letting the other two sink out of his life.  The character is not unusual, nor the situation uncommon.  What is a woman to do?  Her very virtues are enemies of her peace; if she appears as a constant check and monitor, she repels; if she weakly acquiesces, the stream will flow over both of them.  The dilemma seems hopeless.

It would be a mistake to suppose that either Edith or Jack put their relations in any such definite shape as this.  He was unthinking.  She was too high-spirited, too confident of her position, to be assailed by such fears.  And it must be said, since she was a woman, that she had the consciousness of power which goes along with the possession of loveliness and keen wit.  Those who knew her best knew that under her serenity was a gay temperament, inherited from the original settlers of Manhattan, an abounding enjoyment of life, and capacity for passion.  It was early discovered in her childhood that little Edith had a will of her own.

Lent was over.  It was the time of the twittering of sparrows, of the opening of windows, of putting in order the little sentimental spots called “squares,” where the poor children get their idea of forests, and the rich renew their faint recollections of innocence and country life; when the hawkers go about the streets, and the hand-organs celebrate the return of spring and the possibility of love.  Even the idle felt that it was a time for relaxation and quiet.

“Have you answered Miss Tavish’s invitation?” asked Jack one morning at the breakfast-table.

“Not yet.  I shall decline today for myself.”

“Why?  It’s for charity.”

“Well, my charity extends to Miss Tavish.  I don’t want to see her dance.”