“Thank you for making such a sacrifice.” It sounded foolish, but he didn’t know what to say.
She came closer to him. He was afraid to touch her; she was like a strange woman in his house. That soft sensual smile set him on fire. She slid into his arms; he kissed her neck, hair, her lips; she let herself be adored. His love had been ideal in those early wonderful days of his marriage. He reverenced his wife; he was afraid to repel her. He had heard of some men whose wives hated them for their lack of consideration. Julie laughed at his innocence. He often wondered if she appreciated being his first love; he couldn’t answer that now, after four years. He ceased trying to probe her soul; he worshipped her body.
In the physical intoxication of the next few months, he forgot all his plans for future activity. Love can be a despot or a liberator; Floyd was in chains again.
9
When it was known the Garrisons had “come back,” they were deluged with invitations.
“Do you want to go?”
“Of course, what’s the use of Paris gowns if I can’t make the other women green?” She was in good humor now, caressed, spoilt, every wish fulfilled. He gave her a new car, a gorgeous thing fitted up like a boudoir, trying to shake off a sickening consciousness that he was buying her favors. He pulled wires for a box at the opera (it was an achievement to get one); she rewarded him with a long kiss; he developed a prodigality which astounded the Colonel.
“You’re going it, my boy. You’re beyond your income.”
“Oh, sell something,” laughed Floyd. “I must have money.”
The Colonel didn’t like the flippant answer, the restless way. He wasn’t quite certain, but it seemed once or twice the boy had been drinking. He had noticed since Prohibition many sober men had taken to drink; psychologically interesting, the resistance to personal restraint....