Miriam fastened her wrap again silently, and got carefully out through the window.
“Twelve steps,” cautioned Eveley. “You’d better count them, it is so dark, or you may stumble at the bottom.”
Miriam, clinging to the railing on one side, passed slowly down. “One, two, three, four, five, six.” Then she stopped and turned.
“Seven.” Looking somberly up to Eveley, standing above her, her face showing pale and sorry in the dim light, she said, “I have been married five years, Eve. You do not know what it is to spend five years struggling to maintain your charm for your husband. And never knowing whether you have failed or won. Always wondering why he finds more attraction in other women less beautiful and less clever. Always wondering, always afraid, trying to cling to what ought to be yours without effort. It isn’t funny, Eveley.” She turned slowly, to go on down, but Eveley laid a restraining hand on her arm.
“Five years? That is a long time,” she said in a tender voice. “It must almost be his turn now. Five years seems very long to me.”
Miriam passed on down the stairs, counting aloud, eight, nine, ten, and on to the last. At the last step she turned again.
“He is my husband, Eveley. One must do what is right.”
“Yes? Yet five years of duty does not seem to have brought you much happiness. At least you should not be selfish. You ought not to deny him the pleasure of doing his by you for the next five.” Then she added apologetically: “Forgive me, Miriam. You know I should never have mentioned this if you hadn’t spoken.”
Miriam clung to her hand as they felt their way carefully around the house, Lem in the machine still honking for them to hurry.
At the corner she paused again. “You are very clever, aren’t you, Eveley?”