“Those thoughts, you know, aren’t really—really important. I mean—they don’t change anything.”
“They change everything,” said Jane dully. “Sarah, a breakfast tray, here in the living-room, for Mr. Trent.”
“And one for Mrs. Carver,” said Jimmy, with an affable smile for the maid in the doorway. “I’m sure you haven’t eaten a bite this morning. I’m sure you just drained down a cup of black coffee.”
“That’s just what I did,” said Jane, smiling wanly at Jimmy’s omniscience.
“Two breakfast trays, Sarah,” grinned Jimmy in dismissal. Then, when the girl had gone; “Sit down here, darling, on the sofa, with a pillow at your back. Put your feet up. There! Comfortable, now?”
“Very,” said Jane with another wan smile. “Jimmy, you make it awfully hard for me to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” said Jimmy brightly. “That you take it all back? Don’t trouble to tell it, Jane. Just sit there and rest and wait for your breakfast. When you’ve eaten it, life will seem much rosier.” He stood looking down at her very cheerfully from the hearthrug. “I wish I could sit down on the floor, Jane, and take your hands and tell you I adore you, but I really think I hadn’t better do it until Sarah has come in with the breakfast trays.”
“You hadn’t better ever do it,” said Jane.
“Nonsense,” said Jimmy. “I’m going to do it innumerable mornings. In the South Sea Islands and Siam and Burma—”
Jane couldn’t help laughing.
“Jimmy,” she said, “you’re perfectly incorrigible. But I mean it. I really mean it. I’m terribly sorry—I know it’s rough on you—but—but I made a dreadful mistake last night in the garden.”
“And now you’ve discovered that you don’t love me,” smiled Jimmy. “Well, presently you’ll discover again that you do.”
“No, Jimmy.” Jane’s voice was shrill with conviction.
“Here’s Sarah,” murmured Jimmy, turning with nonchalance to fleck the ash of his cigarette in the empty grate. Sarah placed the breakfast trays on two small tables and retired noiselessly from the room.
“Now eat, Jane,” said Jimmy commandingly. “I’m going to let you have all that breakfast before I even kiss you.”
Jane thought the breakfast would choke her. But somehow, under the stimulus of Jimmy’s pleasant conversation, she found she had consumed the entire contents of the tray. Jimmy rang again for Sarah. When the trays were removed, he stepped quickly over to her and sank on his knees by the sofa.
“Darling!” said Jimmy, seizing her hands in his.
“Jimmy!” cried Jane in terror. “Don’t kiss me! Don’t you dare to kiss me! I’m not the woman I was last night in the garden.” Her earnestness held him in check.
“Darling,” said Jimmy, still clinging firmly to her hands, “I know it’s terribly hard for you. I know it’s much worse for you than it is for me. You’ll have to face Stephen, whom you love, and a scandal, which you’ll hate. You’ll have to leave your children for a time—though, of course, you’ll see them afterwards. I love your children, Jane, and they like me. They’re great kids. But of course you’ll have to leave them. It’s a terrible sacrifice—and what have I to offer you?”
“Oh, Jimmy,” said Jane pitifully, “don’t say that! It isn’t that!”
“I know it isn’t, but still I have to say it. I’m a total loss as a husband, Jane. I’m a rolling stone and I’ll never gather moss. We’ll wander about the world together and I’ll write a little music and look for pleasant little jobs that won’t keep me too long in anyone place. You’ll be awfully uncomfortable, Jane, a great deal of the time. And maybe lonely—”
“No, I wouldn’t be lonely,” said Jane.
“I’m not so sure,” said Jimmy. “I think there are lots of raggle-taggle gypsies that you wouldn’t find so very congenial on closer acquaintance. They’re rather sordid, you know, and just a little promiscuous, in close quarters.”
“I wouldn’t care,” said Jane eagerly; “I wouldn’t care, Jimmy, as long as I had you.”
“Well, then,” smiled Jimmy, drawing a long breath, “well, then—if that’s the way you feel, just why am I not to dare to kiss you?”
“Because I’m not going away with you, Jimmy.” Jane drew her hands from his. “I’m not going to do it. This isn’t just the silly reaction of a foolish woman to a moment’s indiscretion. It’s something much more serious. I’m in love with you, Jimmy, but I love you, too. I love you, just as I love Stephen and the children. I love you as I love Agnes. And that’s one of the reasons why I won’t let you do this thing. Can’t I make you understand, Jimmy, what I mean? When you love people, you’ve got to be decent. You want to be decent. You want to be good. Just plain good—the way you were taught to be when you were a little child. Love’s the greatest safeguard in life against evil. I won’t do anything, Jimmy, if I can possibly help it, that will keep me from looking anyone I love in the eye.” Her voice was trembling so that she could not keep it up a moment longer. She turned away from Jimmy to hide her tears. In a moment he had tucked a big clean handkerchief into her hand. She buried her face in the cool, smooth linen. Jimmy rose, a trifle unsteadily, to his feet.
“Jane,” he said, “Jane—you almost shake me.”
Jane wept on in silence.
“See here,” said Jimmy presently; his voice had changed abruptly: “This won’t do, you know. For it really isn’t true—it’s very sweet, but it’s silly—it’s sentimental. It doesn’t do anybody any good for a man and woman who are in love with each other to go on sordidly living with people they don’t love. Stephen wouldn’t want you to live with him under those circumstances. Agnes wouldn’t want me to live with her. They’re both exceptionally decent people.”
“So we’re to profit by their decency?” said Jane coldly. “To be, ourselves, indecent?”
“Darling,” said Jimmy, “it isn’t indecent to live with the man you love.”
Jane rose abruptly
