both knew it, but it did in a way set forth the hopelessness of the situation as they saw it.
It was after that that Henry announced his future course. So long as Kay remained married to the scoundrel she could not enter his house. He had done his best. He had nothing to reproach himself with. She'd soon get her fill of romance and come crawling home.
"Thank God there will be ways to get rid of the fellow," he said. "But if he thinks he has married into a soft thing he can think again."
But there was something pathetic about Henry, too. Bessie, sitting watching on a sofa, was rather sorry for him. He had been so sure of himself, of his well-organized life, his standing in the community. He had said "thumbs up" or "thumbs down," and all the thumbs in his vicinity had obeyed.
"It's a little soon to think of that," she said, lighting a fresh cigarette. She had smoked steadily all evening. "And it might be worse, you know. They're married, anyhow. What are you really thinking about? What people will say? Well, let them talk, and be damned to them. This is a fifty-fifty proposition. Either Kay will be happy, and I imagine that's what we all want, or she won't, and in that case she can go to Paris and get rid of him. For my part" she hesitated.
"Well, get on with it," said Henry impatiently.
"For my part, I think she would rather be miserable with him than to—well, to be happy with anybody else."
She had meant to say, "to vegetate," but a glance at Herbert had deterred her. She found herself rather admiring Herbert that night. Thank God for good breeding. It was at least a crutch to fall back on, when everything else failed.
"You talk like a fool," said Henry. "Nobody chooses to be miserable."
But she only eyed him. How little he knew about life, really, and especially women. Nobody in love was ever happy. Love was a pain. When it ceased to be a pain it was not love. Contentment, resignation, call it what you liked, but not love. But she took refuge in flippancy.
