8
The Pen
child with a shiny new toy. If she
felt that she had made a rash deci
sion in consenting to bo my wife,
she was too ladylike to display it
in any way—at first. Need I tell
of my supreme happiness? I could
have conquered the world had that
been my assigned task and I swore
by all things holy that I would keep
my little wife as content as she now
seemed. But this was not to be.
Marcia soon plunged into a whirl
wind campaign of renewing old
friendships, joining exclusive clubs,
and definitely setting up the Thomp
sons in East Newton’s society. I
tolerated all this because it made
Marcia happy, but I detested the
endless rounds of parties, the per
sistent young matrons who were al
ways dropping in for tea, and the
gossipy old neighbors who had
known Marcia ever since she was
THAT big and who scolded and
pitied her for having married
that “homely drawling Southerner”
when so many of her childhood
playmates had been simply “dyin’
to marry her.” I know our neigh
bors said things like that for I
heard one of them telling the other
that Mrs. Hughes had certainly
wasted her money sending Marcia
off to college if she.couldn’t find a
better-looking husband than that!
I wanted to tell them to “go to
hell” among other things, but be
cause I realized how I might hurt
Marcia, I restrained myself. It was
these muttering old fools who plant
ed the seed of discontent in Marcia’s
mind and they watered and nour
ished it until it had assumed mas
sive proportions.
My wife began to find fault with
me and complained of many of my
“countrified” habits. I had never
learned the art of eating in a dig
nified manner; I thought that good
food should be devoured with gusto
and a loud smacking of lips in or
der to exhibit sheer, enjoyment and
happiness. My little Marcia, how
ever, was definitely not of my
“school of thought” and our meals
soon were characterized by such
monologues as “Jeff, must you drink
your coffee so loudly?” and “weren’t
you ever told that you don’t eat
mashed potatoes with your knife?”
or more often, “I wish you wouldn’t
gulp your food down like a starved
cannibal, Jeffrey Thompson!” This
latter vehement reproof always
meant that tears were not far be
hind, I learned, and it never failed
to arouse me to a cognizance of my
bad table manners. I’d always look
up apologetically and murmur,
“I’m sorry, darling. You know I
wouldn’t do anything in the world
to make my Sugar unhappy, don’t
you?” and I’d get up and attempt
sometimes unsuccessfully to take her
into my arms and avow my eternal
love for her. This effort toward
reconciliation proved repulsive, be
cause I had a slight case of hay
fever, which caused me to breathe
heavily, especially when I was emo-
(Cmtinued on Page Eiahteen)