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Updated: May 17, 2025
There are some who seek to be confidential and who cautiously feel their way for an opening, but the mental sparring is vain: there is an indefinable something that tells the intruder, "Thus far, and no farther." Mrs. Maynard is courteous, cordial, and hospitable, Alice sweet and gracious and sympathetic, even, but confidential never.
Midget was beginning to realize that the more she saw of Delight, the better she liked her. And the brave way in which the little girl met the coolness and indifference that were shown her, roused Marjorie's sense of justice, and she at once began to stand up for her. And when Marjorie Maynard stood up for anybody, it meant a great deal to the youthful population of Rockwell.
Taber leaned forward suddenly and extended his glass, the grin on his face showing some genuine humor. "Let's have another drink, Doctor. Then I'll go. I love the factual way this Scotch of yours hits my stomach." Frank Corson entered the office of Wilson Maynard, Superintendent of Park Hill Hospital.
She shed some tears, and after a little reflection she asked, "How soon will he be here?" "I don't know," said Grace. "He seems to have started yesterday morning." "He can be here by day after to-morrow," Mrs. Maynard computed. "There will be some one to look after poor little Bella then," she added, as if, during her sickness, Bella must have been wholly neglected.
Both were tall, lithe, slender; both had dark, lustrous eyes, dark, though almost perfect, skin, exquisitely-chiselled features, and slender, shapely hands and feet. Alice was "the picture of her father," said Mrs. Maynard, and Mr. Renwick had lived all his life in New York; while Mr.
Maynard had dismissed the cab, and staid the rest of the morning. Marjorie, perhaps, would not have cared so much for the pictures and statues had she been alone; but her father called her attention to certain ones, and told her about them in such a way, that she was amused and instructed both.
"Why must a girl marry?" murmured Margaret, wistfulness in her voice. "I'd rather go to work." "Margaret, you are a Maynard," replied her mother, haughtily. "Pray spare me any of this new woman talk about liberty equal rights careers and all that. Life hasn't changed for the conservative families of blood.... Try to understand, Margaret, that you must marry and marry well.
It was more than a few years since the last time Judge Maynard had driven up to the gate of that old, drab cottage; and now standing there with one slim outstretched hand lovingly patting the bundle of paper patterns which represented her afternoon's work, she smiled with gentle derision for the mental picture she had carried all those years of the wealthiest man in Boltonwood.
Maynard plucked a grass stem and chewed it reflectively, staring out across the purple moor and lazily watching the western sky turn from glory to glory. Over his head the smoke of the sacrifice still curled and eddied upwards. Then a sudden sound sent him on to one elbow the thud of an approaching horse's hoofs. "Moor ponies!" he muttered, and, rising, stood expectant beside his smoking altar.
Maynard told me about your plan." "Pray, what else did Mrs. Maynard tell you about me?" "About your taking up a profession, in the way you did, when you needn't, and when you did n't particularly like it." "Oh!" she said. Then she added, "And because I was n't obliged to it, and did n't like it, you tolerated me?" "Tolerated?" he echoed. This vexed her. "Yes, tolerate!
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