And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. It was excellently done, especially as she loved good dinners. Supper was over. His tone changed, becoming a little more moderate. In the discussion there was the oddest mixture of things that were personal and petty with an idealist devotion that was fine beyond dispute. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. Slowly and ruefully she realized why marriage was so idealized among her generations of those before her. He feared to antagonize that distinguished person.
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