I sat, very small, on a chair in a corner. I felt like Jezebel, or whatever her name was, and now the Harbison man was coming, and he was going to see me stripped of my pretensions to domesticity and of a husband who neglected me. He was going to see me branded a living lie, and he would hate me because I had put him in a ridiculous position. He was just the sort to resent being ridiculous.
Jim brought him down in a dressing gown and a state of bewilderment. It was plain that the memory of the afternoon still rankled, for he was very short with Jim and inclined to resent the whole thing. The clock in the hall chimed half after three as they came down the stairs, and I heard Mr. Harbison stumble over something in the darkness and say that if it was a joke, he wasn’t in the humor for it. To which Jim retorted that it wasn’t anything resembling a joke, and for heaven’s sake not to walk on his feet; he couldn’t get around the furniture any faster.
At the door of the den Mr. Harbison stopped, blinking in the light. Then, when he saw us, he tried to back himself and his dishabille out into the obscurity of the library. But Aunt Selina was too quick for him.
“Come in,” she called, “I want you, young man. It seems that there are only two fools in the house, and you are one.”
He straightened at that and looked bewildered, but he tried to smile.
“I thought I was the only one,” he said. “Is it possible that there is another?”
“I am the other,” she announced. I think she expected him to say “Impossible,” but, whatever he was, he was never banal.
“Is that so?” he asked politely, trying to be interested and to understand at the same time. He had not seen me. He was gazing fixedly at Bella, languishing on the divan and watching him with lowered lids, and he had given Jim a side glance of contempt. But now he saw me and he colored under his tan. His neck blushed furiously, being much whiter than his face. He kept his eyes on mine, and I knew that he was mutely asking forgiveness. But the thought of what was coming paralyzed me. My eyes were glued to his as they had been that first evening when he had called me “Mrs. Wilson,” and after an instant he looked away, and his face was set and hard.
“It seems that we have all been playing a little comedy, Mr. Harbison,” Aunt Selina began, nasally sarcastic. “Or rather, you and I have been the audience. The rest have played.”
“I—I don’t think I understand,” he said slowly. “I have seen very little comedy.”