“I think I’m doing my part,” he rather solemnly asserted. I couldn’t see his face, in the dark, but there was little hope to be wrung from the tone of his voice. So I knew it would be best to hold my peace.
Casa Grande blazed a welcome to us, as we drove up to it, and the children, thank heaven, were relievingly boisterous over the adventure of their dad’s return. He seemed genuinely amazed at their growth, seemed slightly irritated at Dinkie’s long stares of appraisal, and feigned an interest in the paraded new possessions of Poppsy and her brother—until it came to Peter’s toy air-ship, which was thrust almost bruskly aside.
And that reminds me of one thing which I am reluctant to acknowledge. Dinky-Dunk was anything but nice to Susie. He may have his perverse reasons for disliking everything in any way connected with Peter Ketley, but I at least expected my husband to be agreeable to the casual guest under his roof. 232 Through it all, I must confess, Susie was wonderful. She made no effort to ignore Duncan, as his ignoring of her only too plainly merited. She remained, not only poised and imperturbable, but impersonal and impenetrable. She found herself, I think, driven just a tiny bit closer to Gershom, who still shows a placid exterior to Duncan’s slightly contemptuous indifference.
My husband, I’m afraid, was not altogether happy in his own home. In one way, of course, I can not altogether blame him for that, since his bigger interests now are outside that home. But I begin to see how dangerous these long separations can be. Somewhere and at some time, before too much water runs under the bridges, there will have to be a readjustment.
I realized that, in fact, as I drove Duncan back to the station last night, after I’d duly signed the different papers he’d brought for that purpose. I had a feeling that every chug of the motor was carrying him further and further out of my life. Heaven knows, I was willing enough to eat crow. I was ready to bury the hatchet, and bury it in my own bosom, if need be, rather than see it swinging free to strike some deeper blow. 233
“Dinky-Dunk,” I said after a particularly long silence between us, “what is it you want me to do?”
My heart was beating much faster than he could have imagined and I was grateful for the chance to pretend the road was taking up most of my attention.
“Do about what?” he none too encouragingly inquired.
“We don’t seem to be hitting it off the way we should be,” I went on, speaking as quietly as I was able. “And I want you to tell me where I’m failing to do my share.”
That note of humility from me must have surprised him a little, for we rode quite a distance without a word.