Meanwhile, Mrs. Violette scrubbed vigorously at the sink there in the small room. Ethel came in and said jauntily, 'Lunch, dears? I'll start the vegetables.'
Out in the yard, Paul Townsend was working near the low stone wall. He was on vacation. School was out; Jeanie was around and about; Mrs. Pyne sat on the porch. There was no privacy.
Chapter X
MR. Gibson retired to the privacy of his own skull where he made plans.
This mysterious distress in Rosemary was intolerable. Therefore, first, he would find out what troubled her. Then, he would see to it that whatever it was troubled her no more. He felt much better, as soon as this course became plain and imperative.
He was determined, however, that he would not seek this information from. Ethel, although, curiously, he was quite sure Ethel would know all about it, for he conceded that Ethel was wise and much more alert than he. But no. He would find out what bothered Rosemary in the simplest
possible way. He would ask her. But he would do it in private.
Very well, then. This very evening he would struggle out of the hypnosis of routine. When Ethel announced bedtime, as she was so often the one to do (and night falling, and no company coming, the world still) he would not let her 'tuck him in,' which habit she retained although he no longer needed anyone's help in getting to bed. He would tell Ethel to go to bed herself, but he would ask Rosemary to stay. He would say to Ethel, 'Ethel, I want to talk to Rosemary alone. Do you mind?'
She couldn't say she minded. Why should she mind? It would be so simple. Even as he told himself these things Mr. Gibson received a preview in his imagination. He saw Ethel's smile . . . the wise indulgent and rather amused expression she would wear, as she would nod, as she would say, 'Of coiu-se I don't mind,' and he knew he shrank from the prospect.
She would wear the same look that girl in the hospital had worn. Why was it so 'cute' or even a little bit funny that he was fond of his wife? Come now, it was ridiculous to be this sensitive. Well, he would act, then. And when they were alone, how could he reach out to Rosemary, and reachieve her confidence?
He hobbled back into the living room after lunch, busy turning in his mind what words he could say, how gentle he would be, but how insistent. This was the hour of his siesta, but today he did not go at once into his study- bedroom to close the blinds and lie quietly upon the bed for the accustomed period. Today, he stood looking out the east window, across the driveways, seeing, but not noticing, Paul Townsend's bare torso bending and moving there at the edge of his back lawn in some gardening activity—to which he passionately devoted his vacation days.
He could hear, but did not pay attention to, the women's voices in the kitchen. He knew Mrs. Violette was ironing, that Rosemary and Ethel were clearing away the dishes, all in the routine.
He stood in the midst of routine, plotting how he would break it, when he heard Rosemary's voice go suddenly high and full of passion and protest. He heard only the emotion, not the sense of what she said.
Then the kitchen door banged. He saw Paul Townsend straighten and lift his head. He saw Rosemary come stumb-
ling, slowly and distractedly, into as much of the scene as he could see.
Saw Paul drop his long-handled weeder and go quickly toward her.
Saw his head bending solicitously.
Saw that Rosemary was violently weeping.
Saw Paul lift his arms.
Saw her sag, as if it were impossible not to do so, into their embrace.
Mr. Gibson wrenched his head and turned away. He could see nothing. The living room was dark, dark as night, to his light-struck eyes. He must have made some sound, for he heard Ethel say, 'What's the matter?' He knew she was there in the room and he knew that she went to look briefly out of the window behind him before he felt her strong hand under his elbow.
She guided him into his own place . . . for he felt so stricken he needed guidance. But after a moment or two Mr. Gibson's sight cleared and he was quite calm and extraordinarily free. He sat down in his leather chair and laid his cane on the floor carefully. 'What did you say to make her cry like that?' he asked quietly.
Ethel clamped her mouth tight for a moment. 'Never mind, dear. Never mind,' she said rather softly. 'It's just that Rosemary insists upon misunderstanding some perfectly simple remark of mine. She thinks I meant to reproach her ... as if I would. Of course she's emotional . . .' Ethel touched his knee, 'just now. Ah Ken. I'm sorry we saw what we saw. I don't think it meant very much. Not yet.'
'Yet?' he said shrewdly.
His sister drew a sigh from her shoesoles. 'Ken, I am sorry to say so, but you were so foolish . . .'
'Was I? But what I wanted to do . . .' he organized his thought painfully (he cast out the phrase 'in the first place') 'was to make her well,' he finished.
'So you have, I'm sure,' said Ethel, with kind eyes. 'But did you never look ahead to afterward? Didn't you realize that Rosemary, well, would not be the same girl?'
'I know.'
'She is young. At least, comparatively . . .'
'I know. I knew that.'
'When she was so ill,' said Ethel, 'she felt old. But she is not old. Nor does she feel old any more.'
Mr. Gibson resented the kindergarten simplicity of this. 'I know,' he repeated.
'But the foolish thing, my poor Ken . . . was to bring her here—next door to such a man. A man who even shares a hobby with her! You have practically arranged for this to happen, you know.'
