One of the habits of men most annoying to the opposite sex is their reluctance to give explanations.
When one is eager to know the reasons why they did or failed to do a thing, instead of satisfying one's curiosity they go quietly away and say nothing. Women in the same position itch to justify, to excuse, to exonerate. Men keep silent and let one think what one pleases—a form of moral cowardice which remains at once their weakness and their strength.
Why Roger should not immediately hasten to explain the attitude in which he had been discovered with Lady Clifford puzzled Esther and filled her with chagrin. Only a few hours before he had spoken of his stepmother with open dislike, yet here he was with his arms about her, her head against his breast. Perhaps, indeed, it was difficult to explain, yet he might at least try to do so. The evening passed and he said no word.
At dinner Lady Clifford appeared a radiant vision in pale green georgette, a little transparent coat veiling the whiteness of her skin, her lustrous pearls heavy upon her white neck. She had an air of sweetness and frankness. Esther had never seen her so charming. She talked to Roger, asked his advice on various matters, and made herself so agreeable that her sister-in-law noticed it and was pleased. Yet, although an atmosphere of harmony prevailed, Roger did not look at ease. When his eye rested on Esther he withdrew it quickly, and with an air frankly shamefaced. What had happened? Had he experienced a change of heart, and was he feeling apologetic about it? If that was so, he need not, Esther reflected proudly. It was nothing to her. She applied herself to her dinner and refrained from paying the slightest attention to him.
When coffee was brought into the drawing-room, Roger drank his hastily and withdrew. A few minutes later she heard a car start outside and knew that he had taken himself off. In spite of herself she felt hurt. It was a trifling thing to mind about, yet she did mind, and it was with a sense of blankness that she resigned herself to playing piquet with Miss Clifford.
On the chaise-longue in the circle of light from a rose-shaded lamp, Lady Clifford smoked tranquilly, her silver-shod feet in front of her, a fashion magazine spread on her lap. She seemed at peace with the world.
"What a relief, Thérèse, to think Charles is going on so well," the old lady remarked at the finish of a hand. "In a day or so he will have passed the crisis. I feel so much easier in my mind."
"Ah, yes," Lady Clifford replied, looking up. "From now on I should think we have nothing to fear."
Just then the doctor entered from the hall, setting his empty coffee cup on a table.
"You are wrong when you speak of a 'crisis' in typhoid, Miss Clifford," he informed her. "The correct term is 'lysis,' which is quite a different thing from a crisis."