She answered him straight and fearlessly. “Yes. I thought it would be easier for you to hear from her.”
“Did you?” He sat staring past her at visions. It was not within Banneker’s code, his sense of fair play in the game, to betray to Io his wonderment (shared by most of her own set) that she should have endured the affront of Del Eyre’s openly flagitious life, even though she had herself implied some knowledge of it in her assumption that a divorce could be procured. However, Io met his reticence with characteristic candor.
“Of course I know about Del. We have a perfect understanding. He’s agreed to maintain the outward decencies, from now on. I don’t consider that I’ve the right to ask more. You see, I shouldn’t have married him ... even though he understood that I wasn’t really in love with him. We’re friends; and we’re going to remain friends. Just that. Del’s a good sort,” she added with a hint of pleading the cause of a misunderstood person. “He’d give me my divorce in a minute; even though he still cares—in his way. But there’s his mother. She’s a sort of latter-day saint; one of those rare people that you respect and love in equal parts; the only other one I know is Cousin Willis Enderby. She’s an invalid, hopeless, and a Roman Catholic, and for me to divorce Del would poison the rest of her life. So I won’t. I can’t.”
“She won’t live forever,” muttered Banneker.
“No. Not long, perhaps.” There was pain and resolution in Io’s eyes as they were lifted to meet his again. “There’s another reason. I can’t tell even you, Ban. The secret isn’t mine.... I’m sorry.”
“Haven’t you any work to do to-day?” she asked after a pause, with a successful effect of lightness.
He roused himself, settled the check, and took her to her car, parked near by.
“Where do you go now?” he asked.
“Back to the country.”
“When shall I see you again?”