“No,” was my reply.
“Well, he seems very upset about something. I can’t make it out.”
“Neither can I!” I replied. “The whole affair of Stanley’s flight and the subsequent happenings are beyond my comprehension, Thelma.”
“His flight!” she exclaimed in a startled voice. “You surely don’t think that he has left me intentionally?”
“Then why doesn’t he write to you or return?” I asked pointedly.
“Perhaps,” she suggested gently, “there are circumstances that prevent him doing either.” I had thought she would have been offended.
“No,” I said, “he is your husband. His duty is clearly to tell you where he is and why he has not returned. I am sure he would if he really loved you,” I added recklessly.
She was plainly startled now. Whatever she knew—and I was sure she knew more than she would tell me—the idea that her husband did not really care for her was clearly new and overwhelming. She gazed at me white-faced and wide-eyed.
“If he really cares for me!” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.
I could not bear this. “Of course he cares for you,” I said with a laugh meant to reassure her, “but he ought to write to you anyhow. Perhaps he has done so.”