Young Howe had been firmly resolved to give up all his bachelor habits with
his wedding day. In his indolent, rather selfish way, he was much in love
with his wife.
But with the inevitable misunderstandings of the first months of marriage
had come a desire to be appreciated once again at his face value. Grace
had taken him, not for what he was, but for what he seemed to be. With
Christine the veil was rent. She knew him now--all his small indolences,
his affectations, his weaknesses. Later on, like other women since the
world began, she would learn to dissemble, to affect to believe him what
he was not.
Grace had learned this lesson long ago. It was the ABC of her knowledge.
And so, back to Grace six weeks after his wedding day came Palmer Howe, not
with a suggestion to renew the old relationship, but for comradeship.
Christine sulked--he wanted good cheer; Christine was intolerant--he wanted
tolerance; she disapproved of him and showed her disapproval--he wanted
approval. He wanted life to be comfortable and cheerful, without
recriminations, a little work and much play, a drink when one was thirsty.
Distorted though it was, and founded on a wrong basis, perhaps, deep in his
heart Palmer's only longing was for happiness; but this happiness must be
of an active sort--not content, which is passive, but enjoyment.
"Come on out," he said. "I've got a car now. No taxi working its head off
for us. Just a little run over the country roads, eh?"
It was the afternoon of the day before Christine's night visit to Sidney.
The office had been closed, owing to a death, and Palmer was in possession
of a holiday.
"Come on," he coaxed. "We'll go out to the Climbing Rose and have supper."
"I don't want to go."
"That's not true, Grace, and you know it."
"You and I are through."
"It's your doing, not mine. The roads are frozen hard; an hour's run into
the country will bring your color back."
"Much you care about that. Go and ride with your wife," said the girl, and
flung away from him.
The last few weeks had filled out her thin figure, but she still bore
traces of her illness. Her short hair was curled over her head. She
looked curiously boyish, almost sexless.
Because she saw him wince when she mentioned Christine, her ill temper
increased. She showed her teeth.
"You get out of here," she said suddenly. "I didn't ask you to come back.
I don't want you."