Floyd went up to her room one morning to tell her he wouldn’t be home to dinner; she was still in bed, crouching among the pillows.
“Are you waiting for Hippolyte?” There was a touch of irony in his voice.
“I’ve sent him away. I don’t want him any more.” Then she broke into sobs.
Floyd was glad to get that “shame” out of the house. Julie was beginning to mope again; she needed fresh air; he would look for a camp in the Adirondacks for the summer.
Julie brooded about her promise to Martin; the revulsion had set in as usual; she was again the mother, the conventional wife. She was afraid of his anger; she must keep away from him. All sorts of horrors took form in her diseased mind.
The clock struck twelve. The boy had gone to the Park with the nurse, a French girl, who spoke little English; they were late. She saw the child run over by a car, lying mangled under the wheels; she was in a paroxysm of fear, a distracted, neurasthenic woman.
“Mamma, see what I’ve got.”
She caught the boy in her arms, passionately kissing his eyes, his mouth, his hair, a handsome fellow, big for his age, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Mamma, Mamma!”
He took from Mademoiselle a beautiful, perfectly equipped motor boat.