Vivian was a
daughter of the Puritans, the Puritan strain in her disposition had
been mingled with another element. "It is the Boston temperament
sophisticated," he said; "perverted a little--perhaps even corrupted.
It is the local east-wind with an infusion from climates less tonic." It
seemed to him that Mrs. Vivian was a Puritan grown worldly--a Bostonian
relaxed; and this impression, oddly enough, contributed to his wish to
know more of her. He felt like going up to her very politely and saying,
"Dear lady and most honored compatriot, what in the world have I done
to displease you? You don't approve of me, and I am dying to know the
reason why. I should be so happy to exert myself to be agreeable to you.
It 's no use; you give me the cold shoulder. When I speak to you, you
look the other way; it is only when I speak to your daughter that you
look at me. It is true that at those times you look at me very hard, and
if I am not greatly mistaken, you are not gratified by what you see.
You count the words I address to your beautiful Angela--you time our
harmless little interviews. You interrupt them indeed whenever you can;
you call her away--you appeal to her; you cut across the conversation.
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