There was one way, she concluded, and only one, to deal with Donald. She must make herself as attractive, as alluring, as possible. When she dressed herself, the following afternoon, for her trip to the city, she put on her most becoming gown, her most effective hat. She prepared herself with the greatest care. Her maid spent most of the forenoon getting her ready, manicuring her nails, washing and drying her hair, massaging her face, doing everything, in fact, that might be done to enhance her physical charms. She knew she had always been a beautiful woman—she was sure, when she glanced at herself in the cheval glass in her bedroom, that she had never appeared to greater advantage. It did not occur to her that she might make a better impression upon her husband in the sober garb of repentance. She wanted to attract him, to charm him, to force him to desire her so greatly that he would make any sacrifice in order to bring her to his arms.
In all this she showed her lack of understanding of Donald’s character. Everything she wore, from her dainty suède slippers to her costly hat, she owed to West. The jewels she wore had been purchased with his money. The gold purse which dangled so carelessly from her wrist, accompanied by an array of pencils, vanity boxes and fashionable gew-gaws, his wealth alone had made possible. Had she but appreciated it, everything about her was calculated to send Donald into a storm of rage, rather than to attract him and bring him submissively to her feet.
Mrs. Pope nodded proudly as her daughter came down the stairs. “You look stunning, dear—a wife of whom any man might be proud. Don’t give in an inch. You have right on your side, and it only requires a little courage to win.” She settled herself comfortably in her chair. “Would you mind ringing for Richards, my dear? I must have a refreshing drink of some sort. This heat is positively unbearable.”
The ride to town was hot and uncomfortable. Edith, on her arrival, went at once to a hotel near the station and ordered dinner. She did not feel particularly hungry—she was too nervous and excited for that; but she felt the need of something to sustain her throughout the trying ordeal which, she knew, lay before her. Then, too, she had at least two hours to wait, before eight o’clock, at which time she felt that Donald would have finished his dinner and be ready to receive her.
She drove up-town, after her meal, in a taxicab, and arrived at the Roxborough a little before eight. The tawdry entrance to the place, with its imitation marbles and imitation palms, sent a shiver of apprehension through her. God, to come back to a place like this! It was not to be thought of. In this frame of mind she ascended in the elevator, and in a moment stood before the doorway to their apartment. Everything seemed the same—even the crack in the tinted plaster to the left of the door, the smell of gas and cooking, the flickering gas jet in the hall. She realized their familiarity, yet she might have been away for ages, so far removed from her present life did they seem.
Donald opened the door, and quietly closed it after her, welcoming her with grave politeness.
“Donald!” she cried, as he came toward her. “Where is Bobbie?”
“In his room,” he replied.
“I want to see him.”
“He’s asleep.”