Mary flew downstairs. Floyd was trying to read the evening paper; trying to be just to his wife, his friend. He hated to be suspicious; it turned the honey of life to gall; such thoughts made him ill; he couldn’t live with them. He heard a patter, patter. Mary put her head in the door, beckoning him. He found Julie crushed into the pillows.
“Miss Mary says I’ve been out of my head.”
Floyd was vexed. Why did Miss Mary tell her that?
“Did I say irrational things?”
“No, just babbled a bit.”
“What did I say?”
“Only disconnected words without meaning.”
She evidently didn’t know what had happened.
Floyd smoked his pipe that night, and read Emerson on Friendship. Martin was to be pitied; he was a lonely wretch; he’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Mary came in to say good night.
“Everything is all right. We’ll close up early. She’ll have a quiet night, I hope.”