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It was over an hour since they had gone, but she was in no hurry for his
return. She wanted time for getting things straight before he came--for
letting the welter subside and getting the two or three essentials clear
in her mind. She hadn't cried a tear.
The old Rose would have cried--the Rose of a month ago, before that
devastating, blinding scene with Portia, and what had happened since.
She even managed to smile a little satirically, now, over the way that
child would have taken it. Here it was their first anniversary of the
day--the great day in their two lives--their birthday, as well as his!
And he'd forgotten it! He had remained oblivious that morning, in spite
of all the little evocative references she had made. She hadn't let
herself be hurt about that--not much, anyway; had managed to smile
affectionately over his masculine obtuseness, as if it had meant no more
to her than it would have, say, to Frederica. She had impressed him
strongly, though--or tried to--with the idea that the evening was to be
kept clear just for their two selves.


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