"You're being ridiculous. The old thing about money again," Rhoda parried.
"There's nothing old about money. The problem is ever new. It's always with us."
Rhoda Kane wanted to cry. She sat on the floor beside the sofa on which Frank Corson lay, his hands behind his head, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. She wanted to say, Darling, what's happened to me? What is this thing inside me that keeps blocking me away from you? Why can't I tell you about it?
But she could not say this. She could only push the tears back and lay her head seductively on his chest. "You're just tired, dear. You've been working too hard."
He ran his hand petulantly through her hair. "It isn't me. It's you, Rhoda. Half the time you don't even realize I'm talking to you. You're getting such a faraway look in your eyes I'm beginning to think there's another man."
"That's silly," she said lightly. "Let me make you a drink."
"I don't want a drink."
The way he responded to her kiss indicated he didn't want to make love, either. Rhoda settled back to the floor and said, "Darling—"
Suddenly she couldn't go on. Somewhere inside, a dam broke; the strange, bewildering block tottered and began to fall. "Darling—there's something I want to tell you—"
Frank Corson indicated with a jerk of his head. "The phone's ringing."