"I don't believe that Philip really wants a home."
"Don't you? Perhaps you're right. It would be tragic, wouldn't it—if he meant all he says about a home—because there's something undeveloped and silly about Philip that would keep—any woman whom he might care about from caring for him."
"I don't think that Philip is silly," Jean said quietly.
"Perhaps not. But he makes a good bluff at it then."
In spite of the darkness, Jean felt something moving between them, just as she had felt it, without understanding, on the night she had hooked Catherine before the concert.
"Perhaps he does. But then, I think that men, as often as women, make pretenses and—hide behind them."
"I don't doubt that, but they don't put it over—any better than most women do."
As Catherine passed and went quickly out of the room, Jean wished that she had not forced her to that last. Catherine's voice had trembled so.
The next morning when Jean came down, the maid said that Miss Lee had gone on her vacation.
On Friday Jean had her things taken from storage and by Saturday night, her new home was in order. Jean cooked her own dinner and ate it on a small table in the shadow of the house, where she could watch the sun sink over the Jersey hills.