“The police! On their way out here!”
I nodded.
“Donald, they can’t. — You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“It isn’t what I’m doing; it’s what you’ve done to yourself.”
“But, Donald, what can I do?”
“For one thing,” I said, “you can tell me the truth. Then perhaps I can help you.”
She said, “You’re going to think I’m a louse.”
I didn’t say anything.
She said, “All right, here it is in chunks. My sister has never been married. Her name is Rosalind Hart. We’re from Colorado. We’ve been visiting here for the last three or four weeks. My sister is four years younger than I am. She’s a sweet little thing. She doesn’t — well, she doesn’t play around. She’s romantic, intense, and she’s been in love with Stanwick Carlton ever since she met him, absolutely crazy in love with him. They were engaged at one time. He was the first man in her life, the first one who wakened her to the fact that she had grown up and was a woman. She loves him. She loves him too much.”
“You know how it is, Donald. When a girl really goes all out for a man, after a while he gets tired of it. There’s a sense of assurance that he has — a man wants to pursue his women. He wants to have to make a sale. He doesn’t want the merchandise all wrapped up and tossed in his lap every time he leaves an opening. He wants to feel that he’s the salesman.”