Rose was not destitute either of imagination or
sentiment. She did not relish this constant weighing of Stephen in the
balance: he was too good to be weighed and considered. She longed to be
carried out of herself on a wave of rapturous assent, but something seemed to
hold her back,--some seed of discontent with the man's environment and
circumstances, some germ of longing for a gayer, brighter, more varied life.
No amount of self-searching or argument could change the situation. She always
loved Stephen more or less: more when he was away from her, because she never
approved his collars nor the set of his shirt bosom; and as he naturally wore
these despised articles of apparel whenever he proposed to her, she was always
lukewarm about marrying him and settling down on the River Farm. Still, today
she discovered in herself, with positive gratitude, a warmer feeling for him
than she had experienced before. He wore a new and becoming gray flannel
shirt, with the soft turn-over collar that belonged to it, and a blue tie, the
color of his kind eyes. She knew that he had shaved his beard at her request
not long ago, and that when she did not like the effect as much as she had
hoped, he had meekly grown a mustache for her sake; it did seem as if a man
could hardly do more to please an exacting ladylove.
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