“We should have come back earlier,” said Edith, a bit worried. “Bobbie will wonder what has become of me.” She had left the child in Alice’s care, the nurse being out, and knew that the latter would be anxious to get back to the boarding-house and dinner. There was her own evening meal to prepare as well. At once all the realities of life arose to reach out to her, and draw her back to her old routine.
“We can easily make it by half-past five,” said West, as they turned from Thirty-fourth Street into Madison Avenue. “What time will Donald be home?”
“A little after five, I suppose. We shall probably find him at home when we get there.”
They drove up to the house just as Donald was ascending the steps. Edith felt an overpowering sense of guilt as he helped her from the machine; she said good-by to West rather hastily, as she stood beside her husband on the sidewalk. Nothing was said about the proposed trip to Denver; Donald asked them about their day’s outing, hoped they had had a pleasant time; further than that there was no conversation. As the motor rolled off, West looked back and nodded, and in a moment Edith found herself ascending the elevator with her husband, wondering if, after all, the experience of the day had not been a strange dream.
It seemed queer, unreal, to come down to the commonplace things of life. Potatoes had to be peeled, a steak cooked, all the details of the preparation of their simple dinner. Bobbie was cross and hungry, and hung about her skirts as she moved to and fro in the kitchen. Alice had hurried away, with a rather nasty remark concerning her long stay. More than ever she realized that life—her life—was so full of things that meant nothing to her, so barren of those that really counted. She placed the dinner upon the table with a heart full of bitterness, but she showed nothing of it to Donald.
He was full of his new venture in the glass business. A friend by the name of Forbes had come to him that afternoon with some patents for making glass tiling; there was a fortune in it, he rattled on, and she listened, only half-comprehending what it was all about. She had always tried to take an interest in her husband’s business affairs, but, to-night, her heart was too full of other things—things that alternately lifted her up into realms of hitherto unknown happiness, and then dropped her into the black depths of despair. After all, it would soon be over, she reflected, and then, frightened by her thoughts, put them from her, and choked down her dinner with a strange sense of desolation. Billy was gone—Billy, who had filled her days and nights with a new joy of living. Gone—gone! Suppose something were to happen to him! The thought that she might never see him again frightened her.
CHAPTER VIII
One evening, about two weeks after West had left New York for Denver, Alice Pope, Edith’s sister, came down to the Roxborough for the purpose of spending the evening.