But now someone had opened the door, and an invisible and icy cold wind blew around her, around her alone, and only she felt it. She didn’t know what she should do, or why she had to do something. But she did. The words still echoed in her ears: My wife doesn’t dance. She felt a powerless bitterness, as if he had lied on her behalf, as if he had been unfaithful. But that kind of thing would have been easier for her to bear, because it was something that could have happened to anyone, something both she and others could grasp, discuss, and relate to. This she couldn’t share with anyone, least of all her husband, who was now sitting in the living room waiting for dinner while reading the daily paper.

A cold hate washed over her. He was sitting there completely unaware, waiting for his evening comfort. Blameless. But if you feel betrayed, you are betrayed.

She got up and went back to preparing the meal. She sliced up the meat, made gravy. Hate penetrated her mind like a bright, sharp flame, forcing her thoughts so far from their usual channels that it was as if a completely different woman were standing there from the one who, just half an hour or less before, had gone into the living room to answer the phone. In this cutting, cool light she saw the form of a strange, inconsequential person, who admired her intelligence, enjoyed her food, and venerated her social class, which was above his. How courteously he had approached her parents’ large, solid rooms as a working student, striving for entrance into the culture in which she had been born and raised. Had she ever been anything for him other than a means to achieve a lasting separation from the social class to which he belonged? So he accepted the leg in the bargain! Apparently he wasn’t able to conquer a girl who was both cultivated and graceful.