In the early weeks of their courtship, even during the first months of their marriage, he had had a fear of losing Ethel; he could almost think of it now as a kind of premonition of what had happened to him this week. As a fiancé and bridegroom he had tormented himself with the thought: Did she love him enough, would she tire of him, lose interest and cease to care? She did not. The longer their marriage lasted the more he became assured that she loved him deeply. It had been a wonderful feeling, the very basis of his happiness. For his own security, it was what he most needed to know. Yet what had happened? He was the one who had grown careless, taken their love for granted, been attentive to his marriage duties only when it occurred to him to do so, and thought of love (if he thought of it at all) as something that was there regardless: like the apartment, like the children, like his job. Indeed, he had got in the habit of spending more time with the children, far more time and thought and devotion to his work, than to Ethel. He could not forgive himself now for this neglect; he longed with all his heart to make it up to her, as he had longed on the train; but it was not neglect that had precipitated this last serious quarrel. Neglect, yes, but only in so far as it involved a passing infatuation for Cliff Hauman, a falling under his youthful charm and spell. Had Ethel turned from him months ago, he might have taken it and understood, knowing her justified; but for her to base their separation on his preoccupation of a few days with a young man he would soon be seeing no more of—a preoccupation which had not been willful or indeed understood until it was too late—was unfair.

He was not trying to rationalize the matter or excuse himself. He had always (he believed) understood Ethel, and that understanding on his part had been one of their strongest bonds. He understood full well how a woman of Ethel’s limited experience, temperament, and single-minded devotion—or indeed any woman—would require a considerable period in which to readjust to this momentary excursion of his into another kind of love, which she could only feel to be a blow to her inmost pride, a blow at her very womanhood, impossible to withstand. He knew that and understood it; he could almost think for her through her ordeal, articulating her problem, whereas she herself was only speechless in a floundering daze. But how could it in the long run affect her—them—because he had been briefly sidetracked in an impossible infatuation which he at last understood?