This Side of Glory by Gwen Bristow Page B

and to her surprise she discovered it was not an unpleasant place to be. It was agreeable to be worshiped and waited on, and to receive Kester’s delighted tributes. He brought her anything his eye fell upon with favor, without regard for whether or not she would have any use for it, and apparently believing that she was now too delicate to move he had an extension telephone installed by her bed to save her going downstairs to answer rings. As if this were not enough, he asked her nearly every day if she wanted anything, so eagerly that Eleanor was at last emboldened to make a request that had been lying in the back of her mind ever since they came home from their honeymoon trip.
    Kester’s untidiness irritated her and she had observed that her endless picking up irritated him. She was beginning to foresee that if they continued to occupy the same bedroom their mutual annoyance was going to result in a storm. “I don’t want to quarrel with you about anything so unimportant,” she pled, “but I can’t, Kester, I can’t live in a place that always looks as if the Chinese army had just marched through! If there was no help for it I’d try to be patient, but in a house with nine bedrooms I don’t see why I have to. Would you mind very much if I had a room of my own?”
    They were undressing. Kester’s shirt was dangling from the chandelier and the floor was strewn with his undergarments. Eleanor stood in the middle of the room surveying its confusion with a look of despair. Kester began to laugh.
    Of course she could have her own room, he exclaimed. He would be glad to be relieved of her eternal neatness. Only she mustn’t move, he would. He’d take the room across the hall, which though less grand than this was every bit as comfortable. She thanked him joyfully.
    That removed her last vexation. As the summer poured its hot richness upon Ardeith Eleanor passed her days in pleasant indolence. Young Dr. Bob Purcell, brother of Violet and son of the old doctor who had assisted Kester and Kester’s father into the world, dropped in once or twice a week, but his visits were more social than professional. He and Kester sat drinking juleps and talking about the cotton crop, varieties of good whiskey and the doings of the neighborhood. Eleanor liked Dr. Purcell, who was both wise and humorous, and enjoyed his visits.
    The three old Durham girls called to see her, with great interest in her preparations for the baby. Eleanor was not used to gentle old ladies with nothing to do, but she tried to be pleasant. One of them brought her an elaborately briar-stitched sacque and another a pair of crocheted bootees, while the third sister, Miss Agatha, explained bashfully that she had adhesions and couldn’t stoop, but she brought an illustrated volume of fairy tales. Eleanor began to be aware that any one of the three sisters would have bartered her soul for a baby, and she was filled with sympathy and kissed them all. They told her they were happy that dear Kester had married such a sweet girl. It was the first time anybody had ever called her sweet.
    Only once was she roused to look at herself, when Fred came to Ardeith at a time when his business brought him upriver for a few days. Beholding Eleanor, in a white satin dressing-gown, reclining on a sofa in her little boudoir, Fred was alarmed, embraced her tenderly, and asked why she had not let him know all was not well with her. When Eleanor exclaimed that she was perfectly well, and wanted to know what nonsense Kester had been telling him, Fred looked her up and down in astonishment. Then what, he demanded, did she mean by this ridiculous performance?
    Suddenly, looking at his face, Eleanor saw herself as he saw her and she burst into uncontrollable laughter. Fred continued to stare.
    “Darling,” she said at length, “you don’t understand. I’m a flower of the Old South about to produce an heir.”
    “Do you really feel all right?” Fred repeated.
    She nodded