While she was thus deliberating and winding up her husband’s affairs, Mr. Parsons, who had been absent from New York at the time of Wilbur’s decease, called and bluntly made the announcement that he had bought a house in Benham, was to move there immediately, and was desirous that she should live with him as his companion and housekeeper on liberal pecuniary terms.

“I am an old man,” he said, “and my health is not what it used to be.  I need someone to look after me and to keep me company.  I like your chatty ways, and, if I have someone smart and brisk around like you, I sha’n’t be thinking so often that I’m all alone in the world.  It’ll be dull for you, I guess; but you’ll be keeping quiet for the present wherever you are; and when the time comes that you wish to take notice again I won’t stand in the way of your amusing yourself.”

To this homely plea Selma returned a beatific smile.  It struck her as an ideal arrangement; a golden opportunity for him, and convenient and promising for her.  In the first place she was accorded the mission of cheering and guarding the declining years of this fine old man, whom she had come to look on with esteem and liking.  And at the same time as his companion—­the virtual mistress of his house, for she knew perfectly well that as a genuine American he was not offering her a position less than this—­she would be able to shape her life gradually along congenial lines, and to wait for the ripe occasion for usefulness to present itself.  In an instant a great load was lifted from her spirit.  She was thankful to be spared conscientious qualms concerning the career of an actress, and thankful to be freed at one bound from her New York associations—­especially with Pauline, whose attitude toward her had been further strained by her continued conviction that Wilbur’s life might have been saved.  Indeed, so completely alleviating was Mr. Parsons’s proposition that, stimulated by the thought that he was to be a greater gainer from the plan than she, Selma gave rein to her emotions by exclaiming with fervor: 

“Usually I like to think important plans over before coming to a decision; but this arrangement seems to me so sensible and natural and mutually advantageous, Mr. Parsons, that I see no reason why I shouldn’t accept your offer now.  God grant that I may be a worthy daughter to you—­and in some measure take the place of the dear ones you have lost.”

“That’s what I want,” he said.  “I took a liking to you the first time we met.  Then it’s settled?”

“Yes.  I suppose,” she added, after a moment’s hesitation—­speaking with an accent of scorn—­“I suppose there may be people—­people like those who are called fashionable here—­who will criticise the arrangement on the ground—­er—­of propriety, because I’m not a relation, and you are not very old.  But I despise conventions such as that.  They may be necessary for foreigners; but they are not meant for self-respecting American women.  I fancy my sister-in-law may not wholly approve of it, but I don’t know.  I shall take pleasure in showing her and the rest that it would be wicked as well as foolish to let a flimsy suggestion of evil interfere with the happiness of two people situated as we are.”