By the time the engagement, with proper formality, was announced, George’s attitude toward his prospective mother-in-law had shifted completely.  He was no longer Mamma’s gallant squire, but had assumed something of Mary’s tolerant, protective manner toward her.  Later, when they were married, this change went still further, and George became rather scornful of the giddy little butterfly, casually critical of her in conversations with Mary.

Mrs. Honeywell enjoyed the wedding as if she had been the bride’s younger sister now allowed a first peep at real romance.

“But I’m going to give you one piece of advice, dearie,” said she, the night before the ceremony.  Mary, wrapped in all the mysterious thoughts of that unreal time, winced inwardly.  This was all so new, so sacred, so inexpressible to her that she felt Mamma couldn’t understand it.  Of course she had been married twice herself, but then she was so different.

“It’s this,” said Mrs. Honeywell, cheerfully, after a pause.  “There’ll come a time when you’ll simply hate him—­”

“Oh, Mamma!” Mary said, with distaste.

“Yes, there will,” her mother went on placidly, “and then you just say to yourself that the best of ’em’s only a big boy, and treat him as you’d treat a boy!”

“All right, darling!” Mary laughed, kissing her.  But she thought to herself that the men Mamma had married were of very different caliber from George.

Parenthood developed new gravities in George, all life became purer, sweeter, more simple, with Mary beside him.  Through the stress of their first married years they became more and more closely devoted, marvelled more and more at the miracle that had brought them together.  But Mamma suffered to this.  The atmosphere of gay irresponsibility and gossip that she brought with her on her frequent visitations became very trying to George.  He resented her shallowness, her youthful gowns, her extravagances.  Mary found herself eternally defending Mamma, in an unobtrusive sort of way, inventing and assuming congenialities between her and George.  It had been an unmitigated blessing to have the little lady start gayly off for Cousin Will’s, only a month ago—­And now here she was again!

Mary sighed, pushed her letters aside, and stared thoughtfully out of the window.  The first of New York’s blazing summer days hung heavily over the gay Drive and the sluggish river.  The Jersey hills were blurred with heat.  Dull, brief whistles of river-craft came to her; under the full leafage of trees on the Drive green omnibuses lumbered; baby carriages, each with its attendant, were motionless in the shade.  Mary drew her desk telephone toward her, pushed it away again, hesitated over a note.  Then she sent for her cook and discussed the day’s meals.

Alone again, she reached a second time for the telephone, waited for a number, and asked for Mr. Venable.