She smiled oddly. “My decision! It would make no difference where Marian lived. She would never at any point touch the real world. No, it was not my decision. You see, our income, which was considered a tidy little competence at the time Mr. Latimer inherited it, remained stationary while the cost of everything grew and grew. America was expensive, but in it Marian could marry money—money, Stacey! And, of course,” she added, with a kind of bravado, “you were a splendid parti!”
Stacey felt sickened by the revelation. Oddly enough, five years past, when he had been incorrigibly romantic, it would not have disgusted him a tenth as much as now when he was stripped clean of illusions.
“I see,” he remarked. “So to-day, with the present cost of living, Marian simply must marry. What an economic waste to have thrown away these five years in waiting for me! Why do you tell me this, Mrs. Latimer?”
“Only because it’s a relief to tell somebody,” she replied, “and because you said what you did about money, and because I wanted to show you that one might feel as you did, with even more reason, and still live and be tolerably happy.”
He shook his head.
“Very well, then,” she concluded desperately, “because truth is truth, and if I ever connived at anything against you I want to tell you of it.”
Stacey smiled. “You’re much more girlish than your daughter,” he said.
They were silent for a long while.
Then: “Did you have an awful, awful time, Stacey?” she asked softly.
He started. “Where? In France? Oh, yes, of course,” he replied, in a matter-of-fact voice.