It was curious, he thought, what a sense of intimacy he felt, since, except for that one remark of hers, they had talked only of externals.
“Julie,” he demanded abruptly, “does everything really run along for you as smoothly as it seems to? Are you truly perfectly happy?”
She gave him a startled look, her eyes suddenly troubled. “No,” she said painfully, after a long moment, “I’m not so—bovine as all that. Oh,” she added quickly, “I get along! I haven’t any soul tragedies and I’m not in love with some other man than Jimmy, but there are things”—she pressed her fingers together nervously—“different things—that I’d like to do—or feel. Reckless things!”
Looking into her flushed face, Stacey perceived a strange unknown Julie, and he, too, was troubled and remorseful. “I didn’t know,” he said.
“You never tried to find out, did you, Stacey dear?” she replied gently.
“No,” he assented.
“But why should you?” she asked, defending him against her own attack. “Every one’s the same way. They all think: ‘Oh, Julie,—just the typical housewife!’ ”
“The more fools they!” Stacey muttered.
“No, it’s natural. I behave that way. I have to behave some way.”
“It’s a lot to your credit. The world would be smoother if every one did. Don’t be cross with me for stirring you up, Jule. It wasn’t nasty—or meant to be. I was only interested.”