"What?" George asked, breathlessly. "We've little time for newspapers here."
"I'm not sure," Sinclair answered, "that it's in the papers, but in town everybody's talking about it. Sylvia's thrown him over."
II
George paused and considered the glowing end of his cigar. Instead of vast relief he first of all experienced a quick sympathy for Blodgett. He wanted to say something; it was expected of him, but he was occupied with the effort to get rid of this absurd sympathy, to replace it by a profound and unqualified satisfaction.
"Why? Do you know why?" was all he managed.
That was what he wanted, her private reason for this step which all at once left the field quite open, and shifted their struggle back to its old, honest basis. It was what he had told her would happen, must happen. Since she had agreed at last why had she involved poor old Blodgett at all? Had that merely been one of her defences which had become finally untenable? Had George conceivably influenced her to its assumption, at last to its abandonment?
He stared at the opaque white light which rose like a mist from the waters of the lake. He seemed to see, as on a screen, an adolescent figure with squared shoulders and flushed cheeks tearing recklessly along on a horse that wasn't sufficiently untamed to please its rider. He replaced his cigar between his lips. Naturally she would be the most exigent of enthusiasts. Probably that was why Blodgett had been so pitifully anxious to crowd his bulk into the army. She had to be untrammelled to cheer on the younger, stronger bodies. That was why she had done it, because war had made her see that George was right by bringing her to a stark realization of the value of the younger, stronger bodies.
Sinclair had evidently reached much the same conclusion, for he was saying something about a whim, no lasting reason——
"I've always cared for Sylvia, but it's hard to forgive her this."
"After all," George said, "Blodgett wasn't her kind. She'd have been unhappy."