§ 2
All she knew was that at six a woman’s purring voice on the telephone asked if Mr. Eddie Schwirtz had returned to town yet. That he did not reappear till after midnight. That his return was heralded by wafting breezes with whisky laden. That, in the morning, there was a smear of rice powder on his right shoulder and that he was not so urgent in his attentions to her as ordinarily. So her sympathy for him was lost. But she discovered that she was neither jealous nor indignant—merely indifferent.
He told her at breakfast that, with his usual discernment, he had guessed right. When he had gone to the office he had been discharged.
“Went out with some business acquaintances in the evening—got to pull all the wires I can now,” he said.
She said nothing.