It did not even seem to be resignation; yet a self-conscious and curious pretense constrained them both, now, as the indifferent good nights were said. She had only contempt for those husbands and wives who constantly kissed one another in the presence of others, as if publicly to declare, out of some basic insecurity or make-­believe, that they were still in love or that a nonexistent love still flourished. This custom, so prevalent in American life, seemed to her suspect; in the privacy of her own living room, with no one looking on, she could no more have brought herself to do such a thing if her feelings were not in it than she could have flown; and from hating herself for keeping up the pretense, she would have despised her husband as well, had she suspected he was playing up for her benefit or his. Now when she left the room for bed with her book or magazine she merely said “Good night” in strained tones which may or may not have been lost on him; and he, behind a mask of casualness better than her own, replied from his chair, “Good night—sleep well.” How these good nights had changed from what they had been like in the past, only he or she (out of happy memories that recalled moments far different) could have said.

Ethel Grandin had no patience with women who complained that they had given the best years of their lives to their husbands. Of course they had!—and why not?—and what else did a woman want or expect to do? For that matter hadn’t he, if the phrase must be used, given his best years too? They had been wonderful years, but time was fast slipping away; in the phrase equally common, she was getting no younger. If the marriage she had been building on for so long was to come to nothing, what would become of her? She was thirty-­four, not old; but life would offer her no second chance. Nor did she want another, provided her marriage could be restored. If she must face the fact that she was no longer needed or wanted—children or no children, she would rather die.