He could easily have known.... Gordon Barstow’s detective would have made sure for him in a day.... But Eldridge did not want to know—anything that a detective could tell him. He did not want to be told by detectives or told things detectives could tell. He was studying Rosalind’s every wish—as if he were a boy.
He did not go to Merwin’s till he felt sure that she would be there in the alcove, and he left before she drew the little curtain and came out. He did not want to know.... He only wanted her to be there—and to sit with her a little while, quietly....
He would wait and understand.
A piano had come into the house and the boys were taking lessons. One day he discovered that Rosalind was learning, too.
He had come home early, wondering whether he would ask her to go for a walk with him. He had asked her once or twice and they had gone for a little while before supper, walking aimlessly through the suburban streets, saying very little; he had fancied that Rosalind liked it—but he could not be sure.
He opened the door with his latchkey and stepped in. Some one was playing softly, stopping to sing a little, and then playing again.... Rosalind was alone.
He stood very quiet in the dark hall; only a little light from above the door—shining on the stair rail and on a lamp that hung above it.... She was playing with the lightest touch—a few notes, as if feeling her way, and then the little singing voice answering it.... So she was like this—very still and happy—and he was shut out. His hand groped behind him for the latch and found it and opened the door, and he stepped outside and closed the door softly.