“He adores her, I’m sure,” she said to herself, “but he is too courtly and polished in his manner. I’d rather he would impulsively caress her, or involuntarily call her by some endearing name than to be always so exquisitely deferential and polite. And Madeleine must love him, or why should she marry him? Yet she is so haughty and formal, she might be a very duchess instead of a young American girl. But that’s Madeleine all over. I’ve never seen her exhibit any real emotion over anything. Ah, well, I’m an old-fashioned fool. Doubtless, they’re cooing doves when alone together, but their high-bred notions won’t allow any sentiment shown before other people. But I almost wish she were going to marry Tom. He has sentiment and enthusiasm enough for two, and the relationship is so distant it’s not worth thinking about. Dear old Tom! He’s the only one who ever stirs Madeleine out of that dignified calm of hers.”

And that was true enough. Madeleine had inherited the Van Norman traits of dignity and reserve to such an extent that it was difficult for anyone to be a really close friend.