In the week that followed Nancy enjoyed herself after her own fashion. She read and swung in the garden, having a hammock hung under the firs. She went far afield, in rambles to woods and lonely uplands.
“I like it much better than meeting people,” she said, when Louisa suggested going to see this one and that one, “especially the Avonlea people. All my old chums are gone, or hopelessly married and changed, and the young set who have come up know not Joseph, and make me feel uncomfortably middle-aged. It’s far worse to feel middle-aged than old, you know. Away there in the woods I feel as eternally young as Nature herself. And oh, it’s so nice not having to fuss with thermometers and temperatures and other people’s whims. Let me indulge my own whims, Louisa dear, and punish me with a cold bite when I come in late for meals. I’m not even going to church again. It was horrible there yesterday. The church is so offensively spick-and-span brand new and modern.”
“It’s thought to be the prettiest church in these parts,” protested Louisa, a little sorely.
“Churches shouldn’t be pretty--they should at least be fifty years old and mellowed into beauty. New churches are an abomination.”
“Did you see Peter Wright in church?” asked Louisa. She had been bursting to ask it.
“Verily, yes. He sat right across from me in the corner pew. I didn’t think him painfully changed. Iron-gray hair becomes him. But I was horribly disappointed in myself. I had expected to feel at least a romantic thrill, but all I felt was a comfortable interest, such as I might have taken in any old friend. Do my utmost, Louisa, I couldn’t compass a thrill.”
“Did he come to speak to you?” asked Louisa, who hadn’t any idea what Nancy meant by her thrills.
“Alas, no. It wasn’t my fault. I stood at the door outside with the most amiable expression I could assume, but Peter merely sauntered away without a glance in my direction. It would be some comfort to my vanity if I could believe it was on account of rankling spite or pride. But the honest truth, dear Weezy, is that it looked to me exactly as if he never thought of it. He was more interested in talking about the hay crop with Oliver Sloane--who, by the way, is more Oliver Sloaneish than ever.”