sanctuary, security, the reserves of a society which, whatever its hypocrisies and weaknesses, covered them decently away. The ease and dignity of living; cars stopping at the door, and liveried chauffeurs with cards in their hands.
"Is Mrs. Dowling receiving?"
"Madam is not receiving today."
Or its amenities:
"I am so sorry that John had to fall out at the last moment," when every one knew that John was having one of his periodical "spells," and had not been home for three days.
But her despair was more profound than that. What common ground had she and Tom ever had, except their love for each other? When that was gone, what was to take its place? What was it Aunt Bessie had said? "Tastes. Habits. Ideas of life When it"—love—"has gone, you have to have something else to fall back on."
What had they to fall back on now? Nothing; only their—mutual poverty, their mutual anxieties, to hold them together.
She thought of her people. She was in the house now, in her room, and Nellie's voice was raised from below in angry expostulation.
"For gosh sake, ma! How can I answer the bell with my hands in dishwater?"
Time and distance had softened her memories of her people; she saw them loving and forgiving, kind and understanding. They had been right after all. Her marriage had been doomed to failure from the start. Herbert had been wrong that day at the hospital. He had said it didn't pay to be decent and honest, but surely it did.
Suppose she confessed her failure and went back? Wasn't that the answer? How could she face the long winter with Tom, knowing what she did? The long hours, without even books to read, except those eternal reports of the Department of Agriculture, with nothing to talk about but the cattle, or the small unimportant happenings of the day:
