“If you are going to make fun of me,” remarked Edith with a show of anger, “I think we had better drop the subject.”
Alice got up and went over to her sister. “Oh, come now, Edith,” she said kindly, “don’t get so grouchy. I don’t see anything so tragic in all this. Suppose Billy does love you—what does he propose to do about it—run away with you?”
“Yes.” Her sister’s quiet tones had a ring of earnestness to them, of finality almost, that was alarming.
“The idea! Billy West of all people! I can’t believe it. I suppose you indignantly refused.”
“No, I didn’t. He told me how lonely he was; how bad it all made him feel; how it seemed so disloyal to Donald, but he—he couldn’t help it. He said I was everything in the world to him—that he had never loved any other woman, and never would—”
“Oh, I can imagine what he said,” interrupted Alice. “That’s easy. The question is, what did you say?”
Edith looked at her in a frightened way, seemingly for a moment unwilling to meet her glance. “Alice,” she said, slowly and very softly, “I—I told him I would go.”
“Edith, you really can’t mean it.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Rogers, nodding her head slowly. “Yes. That was over two weeks ago. We had gone down to Garden City in the auto, and had luncheon there. It was a wonderful day—so clear, and bright and beautiful. I had had a row with Donald, the night before. It was about going away this summer. When I met Billy the next day, everything seemed so different. He was telling me about a wonderful trip he was planning, to India, and the East. We talked it over like two children, and then all of a sudden he said he wouldn’t—he couldn’t go, unless I went, too—”