It is, of course, the fault of a social growth, the fault of mothers, the fault of many conditions.

And Jean did not know how to cook! She was a woman of keen intelligence, of all sweetness and all faithfulness, yet she found herself almost helpless when she became the chatelaine of the castle where Grant was to come to dinner.
It is needless to tell of all that happened.

The woman was adroit in the engagement of domestics, and there were dinners certainly, and, possibly, good ones, but the knowingness of it all was wanting.

He felt it, and wondered a little, but did not fret.

He knew the woman.
One evening they were together, after dinner again, just as they had been when he told her he would take her to the woods, and she lay coiled up upon a divan, while he sat beside her.