“But—what are you to do?”
“Oh, I’ll do something. I’ll show him whether I have to sit and take dictation from him.”
“You’re going to practice by yourself?”
“When my plans are ready, you’ll hear them, Helen.”
She shivered.
“I wonder if you’re headed for destruction.”
“You told me I was a degenerate. Well, we’ll see.”
Looking at him she saw, underneath the mask of tawdry control, the agitation he was in and the ravages of nervousness. His eyes were not steady—they were too bright and he had a way of biting at his lower lip which she could not remember.
She straightened her hair mechanically and went past him toward the sunroom. As she went she heard him return to the dining-room and stood with clenched hands trying not to interfere until she had thought things out.
Lying down in the same chair she had occupied before she tried to get some order into her thoughts. The problem of Freda, so overwhelmingly great a moment ago, was matched if not overcome by her realization that Gage was going from bad to worse—that he seemed to be on the loose mentally—tearing from catastrophe to catastrophe. The significance of a quarrel with Sable grew upon her—the probability of all the financial trouble that Gage might be letting himself in for. And the thing that she came back to time after time as her thoughts went around in circles was that Gage did not seem to care any more—that he was so recklessly indifferent to what she thought—to what was wise for the children and for her.