But at this Mary stopped . . . and wondered . . . and wondered.
Was that really true? Positively her experiences of late led her to
believe that Richard would be less happy still if he had nothing to be
unhappy about.--But dear me! this was getting out of her depth
altogether. She shook her head and rebuked herself for growing fanciful.
All the same, her new glimpse of his inmost nature made her doubly
tender of thwarting him; hence, she did not set her face as firmly as
she might otherwise have done, against a wild plan he now formed of
again altering, or indeed rebuilding the house; although she could
scarcely think of it with patience. She liked her house so well as it
stood; and it was amply big enough: there was only the pair of
them. . . and John's child. It had the name, she knew, of being one of the
most comfortable and best-kept in Ballarat. Brick for solidity, where wood
prevailed, with a wide snowy verandah up the posts of which rare
creepers ran, twining their tendrils one with another to form a screen
against the sun. Now, what must Richard do but uproot the creepers and
pull down the verandah, thus baring the walls to the fierce summer heat;
plaster over the brick; and, more outlandish still, add a top storey.
When she came back from Melbourne, where she had gone a-visiting to
escape the upset--Richard, ordinarily so sensitive, had managed to
endure it quite well, thus proving that he COULD put up with discomfort
if he wanted to--when she saw it again, Mary hardly recognised her
home.
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