“Yes,” she answered dully. “I suppose I did. It was the proper thing to do,” she added bitterly. “No! I don’t mean that! I know you are kind—only I suffer so!”
“Has your husband turned up yet?”
“No, but he telephoned that he should be back for dinner, late, quite late.”
“Oh! Pat Borden took care of him. He was well looked after. You needn’t worry.”
“Why should I, about him?” she asked inquiringly, as if she failed to see any significance in what he said. “He telephoned; he is well; he will be here this evening. I do not think about him especially.”
“I hope you have thought about—”
“No, no, please don’t say those foolish things. They don’t sound well the day after.”
He threw away his cigarette and joined her.
“You men are all alike!” she continued musingly. “You are all at the bottom brutal; you don’t care for anything but—what it means to you. I wonder if there was ever a man born who could care for a woman more than for himself?”
“If there were, the woman would tire of him in a week.”