Ethel Grandin froze in her chair. In the most intolerable suspense she waited for the sound of her husband coming along the corridor. Time and again during the past hour her impulse had been to get up and run—run—where? From what? Most of all, to what? She had nothing, nowhere to go; she felt herself to be a total zero, of no account whatever in her marriage, possibly even of no use to her children. Now, with the door about to open, it seemed to her that it would take more than she could muster in herself to face her husband—not courage, but a cold hate she was far from feeling. Self-­loathing was all she felt. But it was enough; enough to undo her utterly.

He came in, his red-­cotton robe half open, his hair wet and rumpled from the shower below the bluff.

“Well,” he said, “where have you been? I looked—” He caught sight of the overseas cap lying in her lap and stopped.

After a pause he said quietly: “What are you doing with that?”

She could not face him; she looked down at her lap, the tears already starting to her eyes.

“What is this, John?”

His heart sank. “It’s Cliff’s overseas cap.”

“I know that. Why have you got it?”

“He gave it to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted it.”

“Why?”

He walked to the window. “Yes, why,” he repeated quietly. He stood looking out with his back to her. “I saw it in his room, and I wanted it. I didn’t know why, then.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I do now.” By an effort of will he turned and looked at her. “I suppose you know that I have grown very fond of Cliff Hauman. If you know anything about me at all, you know that.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about you at all. . . .”

“Please let me finish. . . .”

“I don’t want—I don’t think I care to listen— I can’t— Oh, I can’t. . . .”

“You’ve got to listen,” he said emphatically. “This is the last thing in the world I wanted you to discover, but now you’ve got to.” He came over to her chair and tried to take her hands, but she pulled away. “Please look at me,” he said.

She buried her face in her palms.