“Donald would never do a thing like that.”
“Of course he would. Any man would, who had a grain of self-respect. Then you’d have the pleasure of giving up all this”—she waved her hand about the room—“and going back to that wretched hole in Harlem, and doing your own cooking, while Bobbie plays on the sand pile on the corner lot, and pretends he has a pony cart with a soap box. You would enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Oh, of course you would!”
“Don’t! Don’t!” cried Edith, with a shudder. “I could never stand it—never!”
“Furthermore,” pursued her sister, “Emerson would be bound to know. He’s seen this place, and wouldn’t understand what it all meant, if you gave it up. He probably would have no further use for me. I’m sorry for you, Edith, but you have got us all into this situation, and you haven’t any right to upset it—at least, not now. Wait until Emerson and I are married, at any rate.”
Edith was on the verge of tears. “I ought to have told him long ago,” she wailed. “In the very beginning. Now it’s too late. If he knew the truth, he might never forgive me.”
“I wouldn’t take any chances, if I were you,” observed Alice dryly.
“And Donald has been so fine, so strong, so splendid,” sobbed her sister. “I never realized before all that he has been to me. I can’t tell you how I admire him.”
“Very likely. It’s a great deal easier for a woman to realize her husband’s good points when she has thirty thousand dollars a year than when she hasn’t thirty cents.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Mrs. Rogers, drying her eyes. “I guess I’ll have to make the best of it.”
“That’s sensible, Edith. Nothing else to do. Now I think I’ll go up and dress. What’s on for this evening?”