“Just what?” Mason asked.
“Of course,” she said, by way of explanation, “I wasn’t overly burdened with money. I had a little savings account. I ripped it wide open when I left Pete, to go out in the world and seek my fortune. I could have gone out and tried to get a job. Pete would have followed me then and begged me to forgive him. In the end, I’d have either had to give up my job and go back, in which event he’d have been the winner, or I’d have had to stay with the job and give up Pete, in which event I’d have been the loser.”
“You didn’t really intend to give him up, then?” Mason asked.
She said scornfully, “I thought you knew all about domestic tiffs.”
Mason grinned and said, “Go ahead.”
“So,” she said, “I decided to buy myself some sport clothes, take along my best formals and cocktail gowns, go on a cruise, and leave Pete to do the guessing.”
“And, of course,” Mason said, “you wanted him to know that you were enjoying yourself on the cruise.”
She smiled and said, “I sent him a picture postcard from Cartagena.”
“Anything else?” Mason asked.
“The steamship company,” she said, “put out a folder dealing with the romantic possibilities of the cruise — moonlight on the Placid waters of the Caribbean, gay bathing parties under the slanting cocoanut palms, pleasant evenings, beginning with dances in the dance pavilion, and winding up as couples sauntered out into the moonlight to look at the churned wake of the boat, while tropical breezes bathed them in a gentle caress. I simply gave my husband’s name as a possible customer, and suggested that they mail him folders.