"I was very much surprised to hear of Mr. Pontellier's absence; it's a
wonder Mademoiselle Reisz did not tell me; and your moving--mother told
me yesterday. I should think you would have gone to New York with him,
or to Iberville with the children, rather than be bothered here with
housekeeping. And you are going abroad, too, I hear. We shan't have
you at Grand Isle next summer; it won't seem--do you see much of
Mademoiselle Reisz? She often spoke of you in the few letters she
wrote."
"Do you remember that you promised to write to me when you went away?" A
flush overspread his whole face.
"I couldn't believe that my letters would be of any interest to you."
"That is an excuse; it isn't the truth." Edna reached for her hat on the
piano. She adjusted it, sticking the hat pin through the heavy coil of
hair with some deliberation.
"Are you not going to wait for Mademoiselle Reisz?" asked Robert.
"No; I have found when she is absent this long, she is liable not to
come back till late." She drew on her gloves, and Robert picked up his
hat.
"Won't you wait for her?" asked Edna.
"Not if you think she will not be back till late," adding, as if
suddenly aware of some discourtesy in his speech, "and I should miss the
pleasure of walking home with you." Edna locked the door and put the key
back in its hiding-place.
They went together, picking their way across muddy streets and sidewalks
encumbered with the cheap display of small tradesmen. Part of the
distance they rode in the car, and after disembarking, passed the
Pontellier mansion, which looked broken and half torn asunder. Robert
had never known the house, and looked at it with interest.
"I never knew you in your home," he remarked.
"I am glad you did not."
"Why?" She did not answer. They went on around the corner, and it seemed
as if her dreams were coming true after all, when he followed her into
the little house.
"You must stay and dine with me, Robert. You see I am all alone, and it
is so long since I have seen you. There is so much I want to ask you."
She took off her hat and gloves. He stood irresolute, making some excuse
about his mother who expected him; he even muttered something about an
engagement. She struck a match and lit the lamp on the table; it was
growing dusk. When he saw her face in the lamp-light, looking pained,
with all the soft lines gone out of it, he threw his hat aside and
seated himself.