_ CHAPTER XXIV
"Now the one thing," she told herself, "is to keep your nerve and be sensible. For this may decide your whole life, you know. . . All right, what next? What's to be done?
"I hate Sally Crothers," she began, "but I may go to see her, nevertheless. She asked me to. Didn't mean it, of course, she was plainly bored! No, I won't do it! I loathe the woman! . . . All right, my dear, but who else can you go to? Mrs. Grewe? She's doubtless at home--but there may be that detestable hat, tall, rich and shiny, in her hall. It looked as though it owned her soul! No, thanks--not yet--not for me! . . . Though she told me you soon get used to it. . . .
"Well, how about going back to Ohio, to the little history prof, and hating all men--one and all! That sounds exceedingly tempting! . . . I won't do it, though--because if I do, it means I'm beaten here--and I'd lose Susette and the baby!--. . . Quiet, now. . . . And then there's Dwight. He will probably call up soon and ask how Sally and I got on. I could go to him this very night! How perfectly disgusting! And yet it's just what Joe deserves! What right had he to believe that of me? . . . Now please keep cool. If I go to Dwight I become exactly like Mrs. Grewe--and I'd have to give up the children.
"No, it's back to Joe on my knees, to beg him to let me stay right here. And I'll succeed--I know I will! But won't I be under Fanny's thumb? And won't I take back Amy's friends? Like a good repentant scared little girl! And eat their rich meals and chatter as they do, and dance and grow old--and push Joe on to make more money--more and more--so that I can get fat and soft--like the rest of these cats!"
Again her face was quivering. But with an effort controlling herself, she went into the nursery. And on the floor with her wee son, slowly rolling a big red ball back and forth to each other, soon again she had grown quiet, almost like her natural self. She took supper alone, and then read a novel, page after page, without comprehending. An hour later she went to bed, and there lay listening to the town--to its numberless voices, distinct and confused, from windows close by and from the street, and from other streets by hundreds and from a million other homes, and from the two rivers and the sea--voices blurred and fused in one. And its tone, to Ethel's ears, was one of utter indifference--good-humoured enough but rather bored with "young things" weeping on its breast.
"Be Mrs. Grewe, if you like," it said, "or Sally Crothers or Fanny Carr. Or go back home to your history prof. Each one of these things has been done before by so many thousands just like you. Nobody cares. You have no neighbours. Do exactly as you like."
"Thank you very much," she said. "I choose to be Sally Crothers first. And if that fails--well, between Fanny Carr and Mrs. Grewe there isn't much choice. Do you think so?"
"Oh, no," said the city. And it yawned. But Ethel lay there thinking.
"Excuse me," she spoke presently. "Sorry to annoy you again--but is there any God about?"
"None," came the sleepy answer. "Do as you like, I tell you."
She opened her eyes and sat up in bed.
"Now I've been getting morbid again! For goodness' sake let's try to be healthy and clear about this!"
And she tried to be. But for some time she made little headway. It was easy to grimly shut her teeth and resolve, "I've got to do this by myself, talk to Joe and simply make him believe me!" But as soon as she came to the details of what she should say to her husband, his face as she had seen it last--worn and nervous, overwrought--kept rising up before her. Could she convince him! "It's my last chance!" If only she knew how to go about it! She wanted to be heroic and face this crisis all alone--but she had been alone so much. Tonight it seemed to Ethel as though she had struggled alone for years. Was it all worth while, she asked herself. She could feel her courage ooze again. Her thinking grew vague and uneven. . . . And more and more the picture rose of the woman friend she had counted on having--Sally Crothers, who was so clever, an older woman who knew New York, knew what to do in such tangles as this, knew Joe, had known him back in that past which Ethel was trying to raise again. And it was exasperating! "If I could only get at her!" she thought.
Carefully, almost word by word, she went over in her mind her talk with Mrs. Crothers that day, in order to find out her mistakes.
"Do you know what I think?" she said at the end. "I think in the first part you did pretty well. You made breaks and were clumsy, and she was amused--but she rather liked you, nevertheless. At least you were a novelty. But then you went and spoiled it all by making solemn fool remarks about the world in general. And thereupon Sally arose and went. . . . All right, next time I'll be different. I won't be solemn, nor afraid of saying anything incorrect. In fact I'll revel in it! She asked me to come and see her, in a tone which added, 'Don't.' But I'll be incorrect right there. I will go to see her; and what's more, I'll go tomorrow afternoon! And I won't call up first, for she'd say she was out. I'll get into her house and get her downstairs--and I'll break right through all smoothnesses and tell her exactly how and why I've got to have a woman friend! I'll give you the chance of your life, Sally Crothers, to throw out the life-line!
"If you don't I'll--just swim about for awhile. No use in thinking of that, though."
And suddenly she fell asleep. _