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She didn't want to
enter into a secret with him--with any man, this meant, of
course--against Rodney. She couldn't think of any way of stating her
reason for wanting her husband kept in the dark that didn't seem to
slight him, belittle him, make him faintly ridiculous--like the
pussy-cat John Galbraith had snapped his fingers at.
So she came, rather swiftly indeed, to the decision (she had arrived at
it before Jimmy left the theater) that she wouldn't make any appeal to
him at all. She'd do nothing that could lead him to think, either that
she was ashamed of herself, or that she was afraid Rodney would be
ashamed of her. In the absence of any appeal from her, mightn't he
perhaps decide that Rodney was in her confidence and so say nothing
about it? But even if he should tell Rodney ...
In her conscious thoughts she went no further than that; didn't
recognize the hope already beating tumultuously in her veins, that he
would tell Rodney--that perhaps even before she got back to her dismal
little room, Rodney, pacing his, would know.


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