"He grew up in the West."
"Pardon my spurs!" Tears filled her eyes. "I'm a sap, too. For a while—I really was in heaven. I really thought—this is love. Ye gods! What can happen to people who should know better is—unfair to humanity! And then I began looking for an out. I worked. Sure. Honest working wife—for a couple of weeks. Then—working wife has lunch with the floor manager—in a hotel room rented for the lunch. One club sandwich—and one good, busy change from Paul. Then the stockboy—a hot-looking wop with long hair—took me out in his department to show me the new materials—and the place was deserted. So I knew I was a sap!"
I thought that over. "I'm glad you told me. I know how it is. I don't mind. It's you—and that's that. But there's one thing I wish you'd do. Write Paul a letter. Don't try to teach him a lesson by letting him see you here. He'd just tear up the place—or maybe hurt you—"
"We've got a boy in the kitchen to take care of rough stuff."
"So Paul would get tossed on the street. And come back. And you'd have to call cops. I'm sure Hattie knows the ones to call. Then I'd get a buzz from jail. And Paul would have that indignity to sweat out—on top of everything else. Don't you see he holds the whole business against me—and he likes me? Against family, friends, the kind of people from whom he comes? Against the people he cares about—and the way of life he's been brought up in? If you'd write him the truth—he could transfer the damage to the place where it belongs. He'd hate you for a while—and what would that mean to you? Nothing. By and by—he'd see that he didn't even hate you—maybe even liked you. Understood. Then he'd be pretty grown up. Enough to hate the way we do on the earth, all of us, if he had to go on hating anything."
Marcia smiled gently. Her eyes were inaccessible. "You're right. I liked you—at lunch."
"Good."
"It could be. I'll tell you what. I'll write—on one condition."
"What?"
She moved quickly. She moved into my lap and put her arms around me. "My room's just three doors from here."