"But," I objected, "why meddle? You know what a marriage of that kind would be! You see what he is anyway!"
But here I had touched Kitty's limitation. For her, as for her novels, marriage was the end of the story. If joybells closed it nothing after that mattered, and the look she gave me was a personal confirmation.
"But," she went on presently, "you could help, Jeff. We women can't talk to him—though he's not getting very many smiles from me just now!"
I smiled. "You're an unscrupulous crew," I remarked.
"Will you see him?"
"Well—I won't say I won't."
"But will you?"
"Perhaps—if I see a fitting opportunity."
"A fitting. Look!" Her voice dropped. Evie had just come into the typewriting-room on her way to wash her hands before leaving. "I'll tell you what," Kitty said quickly; "you go along with her now. See if it isn't as I say. Then tell me whether you won't give that little idiot a dressing-down at once."
She had quite forgotten that twinge of jealousy that had been the cause of our recent scene. If she hadn't, the more honour to her sense of sex comradeship. It was about this time that I was beginning quite frequently to forget that our relation was that of lovers, and as long as I could forget that, she had pathetic little magnanimities that I even admired.