“Shawe!” she said, curtly. “Where have you been?”
It would never do to mention the Luffs to her, especially when she was in this mood.
“The train was a little late—” he said.
“That’s a lie!”
“Now, see here, Josephine! That’s not—”
“It’s a lie!” she repeated. “Alice Hampton got the same train as you. She told me she saw you. And she stopped in here twenty minutes ago. You’ve been somewhere for that twenty minutes.”
“My dear girl, look here! I ran into a fellow I know, down at the station, and we talked for a while. Naturally, I didn’t keep track of the minutes—”
“No!” she said. “It’s that girl.”
“Good Lord! What girl?”
“I heard about it last week, but I tried not to believe it. Someone told me that that girl who’s staying at the Luffs’ was running after a married man in this neighborhood, and by the way she said it, I felt it was you she meant. …”
“Good Lord!” he said, again. “When you say things like that—what can I answer?”
“The truth—if you’re capable of it.”
“All right, then. Here’s the truth. I’ve never spoken ten words to Miss Sackett—”
“So you know her name!” cried Josephine, sitting up. “You admit then that you know her!”
“Luff happened to introduce us—at the station,” he said, for now, less than ever, could he mention his visit to the Luffs’ house.
“It must have been a regular little reception at the station,” she said, with a sneer.
“Now, see here, my dear girl…! You’re working yourself up over nothing. Absolutely nothing. Other women don’t interest me—none of ’em—”
“Do you think I’m blind, or a fool? Do you think I haven’t noticed the way you look at Annie, my own servant?”
He felt no anger against her, only an immense boredom. These scenes had happened before; she made herself ill by them, by her wildly unreasonable jealousy. He had never been unfaithful to her, or even contemplated such a thing, but he could not convince her of that. The only way to end these miserable episodes was by making love to her, flattering her, letting her “forgive” him—for what he had not done.
“Don’t you ever look in the mirror?” he said. “Well, then, do you imagine that a man with a wife like you—”
“You needn’t try that,” she interrupted. “I’ve listened to you once too often. You’ve seen the girl once to-day, and you planned to see her again. Your precious Robert Whitestone’s wife rang up. ‘You’ll both come to dinner to-night, won’t you? A little party—some friends of Robert’s…’ I could see through that without much trouble. Rosalind Whitestone knows perfectly well that I wouldn’t set foot in her house. She asked me because Robert bullied her into it. I wasn’t expected to come. It was just an excuse for you to get there. Robert’s trying to help you, in your nasty, underhand love affair. You were going to tell me you were dining with them, and you were really going to meet that girl somewhere.”
“Josephine, you’re—” he began, and stopped. It occurred to him that, in defending himself, he might incriminate Robert. He would have to be careful—and with the alarming insight women had, Josephine might very well discern that he was being careful. That would make it worse.
“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” he said, in a soothing, reasonable tone. “I saw Robert this morning, and he spoke of our both coming to dinner.”
“Well, I’m not going, and you’re not going either,” she said.
He was still not angry, and he was aware of the necessity for caution, on Robert’s account, yet he felt that this domineering spirit in her must not be encouraged.
“I want to go,” he said, amiable but firm. “And I want you to come too. Wear that new dress—the brown lace, y’know. Rosalind likes you, and if you knew her better—”
“Likes me, does she? Just about as much as I like her. I’m not going, and neither are you.”
Their eyes met, and now he felt anger rising in his heart.
“Hold on!” he said to himself. “Keep cool.”
He waited a moment; then he said, mildly, “All right; if you don’t want to go…I’ll call up Robert and tell him I’ll run over later in the evening for half an hour or so. Fact is, I’m worried about Robert. I don’t think he’s well.”
“You’re not going there this evening.”
The smoldering anger in him was growing, and he feared it. He was so seldom angry.
“I will not have a scene with her,” he thought. “We’ve never had a really serious row yet, and I don’t intend—”
“I told Robert you weren’t coming,” she went on. “What’s more, you’ve got to give up Robert entirely. He does you nothing but harm. Every time, after you’ve seen him—”
“You’re going entirely too far!” said Delancey hotly. “I’m not going to give up an old friend, for some whim of yours. I intend—”
“Then you’d better hear what I intend to do,” she said. “I’m going to tell Linney you’re not to use the car. I’m going to stop making any deposits to your account—”
“What the devil’s the matter with you?” he shouted. “You ought to be ashamed—”
“You’re not going to use my money, and my car, to carry on with girls! I’ve had enough! The affair is getting to be common gossip—you and that girl. And Robert helps you! He’s always hated me—”
Delancey turned on his heel, and walked out of the room, out of the house. And he walked as if the devil were after him. Anger goaded him, seemed to gnaw at the foundation of his amiable, easy-going nature.
“She was talking at the top of her lungs,” he thought. “The servants must have heard her. Accusing me of making eyes at the housemaid. …And running after that girl over at the Luffs’. …It’s enough to make me unfaithful, all this disgusting suspicion. …And if she hadn’t flown at me the way she did, I shouldn’t have needed to lie about stopping in at the Luffs’. We could have had them for friends. …But she won’t be friendly with anyone. She doesn’t know what loyalty and friendship mean. …Give up Robert entirely. …The hell I will!”
All the time he was aware of something else, some other cause for anger against Josephine, so bitter and savage that he could not face it.
“She said a lot of things she didn’t mean,” he told himself.
He felt that his anger was a menace, a danger, and he made a determined effort to banish it. After a mile or so, he grew calmer, and he grew hungry. He stopped at a roadhouse and had lunch, a good lunch, and a highball. After he had finished, and smoked a cigar, he was no longer angry.
“Don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a meal more,” he thought.
It was after three now, and he contemplated the rest of the afternoon with uneasiness. He had forgiven Josephine, but he did not want to go back to her.
“No,” he thought. “Better give her a chance to realize…”
In the three years of their married life, he had never yet stayed away without telling her where he was. Sometimes what he had told her had been a lie, when he had wanted to sit in a game of poker, or to spend an evening with Robert, but harmless lies like that did not weigh upon his conscience. This time he would tell her nothing.
“She