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There hadn't been, since then, a word between them of argument or
compromise. The great _impasse_ was still unforced. He hadn't, as yet,
shown that he could give her the friendship she demanded. She'd had no
chance to tell him of any of the small triumphs and disciplines of her
new life that she hoped would win it from him.
And as for Rodney, he was the same man who, an hour ago, in the theater,
had raged and writhed under what he felt to be an invasion of his
proprietary rights in her.
He wouldn't have defined it that way, to be sure, in a talk with Barry
Lake. Would have denied, indeed, with the best of them, that a husband
had any proprietary rights in his wife. But the intolerable sense of
having become an object of derision, or contemptuous pity, of being
disgraced and of her being degraded, through the appearance on the stage
of a public theater, of a woman who was his wife; and through her
exhibition, for pay, of charms he had always supposed would be kept for
him, couldn't derive from anything else but just that.


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