“Don’t be so cheaply jealous.”
“I’m going home,” declared Cecily. “I won’t stay here in this place.”
“Very well. You’ve ruined a delightful party anyhow. Will you say good-night?”
He did not speak to her on the way home, unlocked the door for her and then when she was in the little vestibule said coolly, “I’m going to the club for a couple of hours. Good-night, Cecily.”
The door closed and Cecily went upstairs, her throat choking her. Anger, resentment, but most of all the terrible agony of thought that they had quarreled again and that Dick could not see what she saw nor feel what she felt! Softly she stole through the nurseries so that the children might not be wakened. The sight of them gave her no joy to-night. Only deeper pain and deeper sense of failure! Yet it was some comfort to touch the baby hand lying on Dorothea’s little coverlet, so warm, so confiding even in her sleep. She thought as she stood there of the people who say that they could absorb themselves in their children. Surely even children did not fill up all the spaces in life; not for her anyway could they suffice.
At first she thought Dick would be gone only an hour. She undressed slowly, planning what she would say to him. It became clearer to her that she had been shabby and unworthy. She would tell Dick she was sorry, make it up somehow. The hour passed. She crept into bed and waited. But he did not come. One o’clock—half past one; Cecily got up, tormented by the waiting and all the possibilities it suggested. Where was Dick? Wasn’t he coming back at all? Was it possible that he had left the city? Had there been an accident?
The children slept on. The house was terribly still. She tried to read, tried to think, wrote a note to Dick and placed it on his bureau, only to go in and destroy it after another half hour’s waiting. She thought she would go mad with anxiety. She determined to be quite indifferent. She would not care if he did not. Again she slipped into her bed and this time fell asleep.
When she awoke it was daylight and the telephone was ringing in the distance. She heard the maid answer, heard Dick take the call on his extension. He was home then. He must have come in after half past two. The murmur of his voice was indistinct. She lay there feeling as if she had been beaten; physically tired from the strain of the night before. The children were being dressed in the nursery. She wondered what the inefficient woman in the kitchen was doing, but the routine did not stir her to action as it usually did.
She heard Dick still telephoning. A sick feeling at the thought of meeting him came over her. Would he come in or would he appear at breakfast,—cold, condemning, unjust?
He came in. She braced herself a little, but there was no need. He came swiftly over to her and stood looking down at her, his face troubled, pale. She had not guessed that he would feel like that.