Mr. Gibson couldn't assimilate his new thoughts. Thoughts like this had come nowhere near his mind before. Rosemary and Paul! He said, 'Then they . . . they .?' 'They've been friendly. Now, Ken, Rosemary is a good girl and devoted to you. But she is younger . . .' ( I know, screamed Mr. Gibson inside his head.) 'And he is just the right age for her and a most attractive man. I think I could have prophesied,' Ethel said sadly.
Mr. Gibson sat still and contemplated folly. Folly to rent this little house? He could never have prophesied. Ideas like this had not entered his mind.
'Like all handsome men,' Ethel went on, 'he is a little bit spoiled, I suppose. Careless. He wouldn't have the self-discipline not to be charming. He can't help exuding that physical magnetism. Poor Rosemary. You mustn't blame her, either. There is no blame. She'd have no way of knowing how she would be drawn. The body dictates. These things are beyond one's control really. My dear, you ought to move away at once.'
But Mr. Gibson contemplated his crime. He had cheated her after all. He had given lip-service to his foreboding of this. (Yes, he had prophesied! Now he remembered . . . although too easily, selfishly, and in such foolish delight, he had forgotten all about it.) Of course, he could not blame Rosemary. 'I don't blame her,' he said aloud. 'There is no such thing as blame,' said Ethel gently. 'Once you understand. She simply could not have helped herself.'
'She must be . . .' He could imagine Rosemary's pain. 'But does Paul . . .'
'Frankly,' said Ethel, as if she had been being anything else, 'I don't know how much he is attracted to Rosemary. She's not beautiful, of course, but very nice-looking and quite a lady. She is also so near. Propinquity is such a force.'
Rather drearily Mr. Gibson supposed to himself that it was. He had no doubt that Paul was attracted to her.
'From his point of view,' said Ethel looking shrewd, 'there will be, as I say, the difficulty about the daughter. Oh, I've seen Jeanie watching Rosemary.'
So had Mr. Gibson, now that he thought of it. Jeanie was s(5 quiet, sat so still in a room, watching everyone.
'There's the old lady, too,' Ethel went on. 'Paul's in no position to dash gaily into . . . well, let's call it romance. . . . Move away. Ken. Rosemary is essentially loyal. It may not be too late.'
'Yes, it is,' said he. He had remembered something. He had been puzzled at the time. Rosemary, standing in the living room, saying with such brooding fervor '. . . never known it was possible to have so good a time. . . .' And the occasion—had it not been the first evening she and Paul Townsend had ever spent in each other's company? Wisps, he supposed, of attraction spinning between them, even then. Oh, how inevitable it had been! He saw himself—old—and now lame. '
'If you want to keep her,' Ethel said, 'I know you are very fond of her. And Rosemary is deeply . . '
'I'm fond of her,' he said grimly, cutting ofT the detestable word 'grateful' before it could offend his ears once more. 'But I have no intention of . . . how shall I put it? . . . collecting for services rendered.'
'You are very wise,' said Ethel.
'Especially,' he said rather primly, 'since we discussed the possibility of divorce before the wedding.'
'Ah then . . .' Ethel sighed and her face brightened. 'I'm very glad. Then she knows she can be free if that seems best? Well . . . this puts a different light on the matter. You and I could make do,' she added thoughtfully.
'Yes,' he said.
'It's not a bad life. We'd have our work. We'd be rather cozy, out of the fray. One should plan one's old age. Ken. And neither of us with chick nor child. Perhaps we ought to stick together.'
'Perhaps,' he agreed.
'Not here, of course.'
'No.'
'If Rosemary and Paul Townsend were to marry . . .'
'No,' he said conquering the shudder that threatened to destroy his poise completely, 'certainly not here.'
'I wouldn't be precipitous, however,' Ethel warned. ' ' If Paul is not . . . That is, if the thing's one-sided. Rosemary might need us.'
'She needs to be rid of her obligations,' he said harshly. Or how can she know surely . . . ?'
'You are so right,' said Ethel warmly. 'And when you |are generous and Rosemary is honorable, as I'm sure she is, why, there's no problem.'
(He knew there was a little problem all his own. But he'd take care of that.)
'She'll come to you, one day,' said Ethel, 'when she finds the courage. I can't tell you how relieved I am, old dear, to know that you went into this with your eyes open. I've been a little bit afraid for you. A late-blooming romance can be so devastating to a born bachelor. Now then, can you sleep a little?'
'I think so,' lied Mr. Gibson valiantly.
He lay on the top of his bed. He couldn't bear to imagine, from Rosemary's point of view, her dilemma. He tried to contemplate his old age.
But on another level, his plan beat in his mind. First find out what troubles Rosemary. Then, see to it that it troubles her no more.
What is love? he thought at last with a sick descending and a thud of certainty. What is hers for me? Not my physical magnetism, heaven knows. A lame old crock. A limping horror. The fact is, I have her love, as much as I am going to get. She's fond of me. But my love for her must set her free.
He lay there half an hour or more before he remembered, with a tiny crash of dismay in his brain, that Paul Townsend was a practicing Catholic, and Mr. Gibson was not so sure that divorce would be enough.
