“Because you insulted Mrs. Wrightson.”
“Then you know about it?”
“June Masterson told me. She was standing behind you.”
Julia walked in front of the sofa with a small step that expressed, Francis knew, a feeling of anger.
“I did insult Mrs. Wrightson, Julia, and I meant to. I’ve never liked her parties, and I’m glad she’s dropped us.”
“What about Helen?”
“How does Helen come into this?”
“Mrs. Wrightson’s the one who decides who goes to the assemblies.”
“You mean she can keep Helen from going to the dances?”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Oh. I knew you hadn’t thought of it,” Julia cried, thrusting hilt-deep into this chink of his armor. “And it makes me furious to see this kind of stupid thoughtlessness wreck everyone’s happiness.”
“I don’t think I’ve wrecked anyone’s happiness.”
“Mrs. Wrightson runs Shady Hill and has run it for the last forty years. I don’t know what makes you think that in a community like this you can indulge every impulse you have to be insulting, vulgar, and offensive.”
“I have very good manners,” Francis said, trying to give the evening a turn toward the light.
“Damn you, Francis Weed!” Julia cried, and the spit of her words struck him in the face. “I’ve worked hard for the social position we enjoy in this place, and I won’t stand by and see you wreck it. You must have understood when you settled here that you couldn’t expect to live like a bear in a cave.”
“I’ve got to express my likes and dislikes.”
“You can conceal your dislikes. You don’t have to meet everything head on, like a child. Unless you’re anxious to be a social leper. It’s no accident that we get asked out a great deal! It’s no accident that Helen has so many friends. How would you like to spend your Saturday nights at the movies? How would you like to spend your Sundays raking up dead leaves? How would you like it if your daughter spent the assembly nights sitting at her window, listening to the music from the club? How would you like it?” He did something then that was, after all, not so unaccountable, since her words seemed to raise up between them a wall so deadening that he gagged. He struck her full in the face. She staggered and then, a moment later, seemed composed. She went up the stairs to their room. She didn’t slam the door. When Francis followed, a few minutes later, he found her packing a suitcase. “Julia, I’m very sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. She was crying.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I don’t know. I just looked at a timetable. There’s an eleven-sixteen into New York. I’ll take that.”
“You can’t go, Julia.”
“I can’t stay. I know that.”
“I’m sorry about Mrs. Wrightson, Julia, and I’m?”
“It doesn’t matter about Mrs. Wrightson. That isn’t the trouble.”
“What is the trouble?”
“You don’t… You don’t love me.”
“I do love you, Julia.”
