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 really did go too far,” he thought. “I mean to say, a man can’t let himself be—well—trampled on. I’ll go—”
He would go to Robert’s, and he would tell her that he had gone there. That, after all, would be the best course, to tell her in a quiet, good-humored way that would make her realize he meant to keep his independence.
He took a taxi to Whitestone’s cottage, and kept the cab waiting. He was very reluctant to enter; he dreaded the prospect of facing Rosalind, after Whitestone’s deplorable outburst.
“Not that it really meant anything,” he said to himself. “Pretty nearly all married couples have a row, now and then. The thing has probably all blown over now, and they’re happy again.”
Nevertheless, he didn’t want to see Rosalind just now if he could help it.
“I’ll take Robert up to the Country Club,” he thought. “It’ll do him good. We’ll have a couple of drinks. …”
He was relieved to find Whitestone smoking a pipe on one of the wooden settles built into the narrow porch.
“Hello, Robert!” he said, genially. “Just taking life easy, eh?”
“Oh. …Planning…” answered Whitestone.
“Planning a picture? Well, come on, old man! I’ll run you up—”
“No,” said Whitestone. “You remember what I told you this morning? There are still a few little details to work out. Because I’m going to do it tomorrow, if the weather’s good.”
Rosalind’s voice came from inside the house, gay and light.
“What are you two doing out there?”
“Talking about you, my dear,” said Whitestone.
CHAPTER IV
Rosalind’s Dinner Party
Hugh Acheson sat in his room, looking out of the window, and considering the situation.
It was a situation very familiar to him. How many times had he arrived at a house, and found there a girl—invited only on his account…!
This seemed to him a wrong and unfortunate thing; he always felt apologetic toward these girls, charming girls, pretty, well-bred, intelligent, altogether suitable; he liked them all—but
