“That’s very immoral doctrine,” she said.
“But didn’t you think it was swell,” said Jimmy, “when you first read it with Agnes at Bryn Mawr?”
“Yes, I did,” said Jane honestly. “But I was too young to know what it meant.”
“The trouble with education is,” said Jimmy cheerfully, “that we always read everything when we’re too young to know what it means. And the trouble with life is that we’re always too busy to reread it later. There’s more sense in books, Cicily, than you’d really believe. Though, of course, they don’t teach you anything vital that you can’t learn for yourself.”
Jane rose from the table.
“Go up and do your homework, Cicily,” she said cheerfully. “And don’t listen to Mr. Trent. You’ll never learn the past participle of moneo, unless you apply yourself to Harkness’s Latin Grammar.”
The children trooped upstairs to the playroom. Stephen picked up the Sunday paper. What with the golf all morning and the family all afternoon, he had not really assimilated the real estate columns. Jimmy wandered over to the glass doors that opened on the terrace.
“Come out in the garden, Maud,” he said lightly to Jane. “The moon is full tonight.”
Jane looked at Stephen a little hesitantly.
“You come, too, Stephen,” she said.
Stephen looked up over the margin of the Morning Tribune.
“Run along with Jimmy,” he said. Then, as his eyes returned to the real estate page, “I think this Michigan Avenue Extension Bridge is really going through. That lot of your father’s on Pine Street will be worth a fortune some day, Jane.”
Jane walked at Jimmy’s side across the shaded terrace and down into the moonlit garden. They strolled the length of it in silence. The night was fresh and just a little cool. The moon was high in the eastern sky. It seemed racing rapidly through the ragged rents in the tattered clouds. There was no wind in the garden, however. The moon-blanched daffodils were motionless in their bed beneath the evergreens. The boughs of the apple tree did not stir. Only the cloud-shadows raced, as the moon was racing, across the expanse of lawn. Jimmy sat down on a green bench beneath the apple tree.
“Sit down, Jane,” he said. “Are you cold?”
“No,” said Jane, sinking down on the bench beside him. “I think the air is lovely.”
“Better put on my coat,” said Jimmy.
“No—I don’t need it,” said Jane.
Jimmy took it off, however, and wrapped it about her shoulders. He turned the collar up, very carefully, around her bare throat. Jane could smell the faint distinctive odour of the tweed as he did so.
“I want you to be comfortable,” said Jimmy.
“I am comfortable,” smiled Jane.
“I want you to be comfortable,” continued Jimmy, ignoring her comment, “because I’m going to talk to you for a long, long time. It will take a long, long time, even out here in the moonlight, to make you understand all that I have to say.”
Jane looked quickly up at him, disquieted by his words. Jimmy’s face was very calm. He seemed, at the moment, a very tranquil faun. In one instant, however, by one sentence, he shattered the tranquillity of the moment.
“What do you think,” he said, “is going to happen to you and me?”
Jane stared at him.
“To you—and me?” she faltered. He looked steadily down at her. “Why, Jimmy”—she was conscious of smiling nervously—“what—what could happen?”
He ignored her foolish question.
“I’m married to Agnes,” said Jimmy; “you’re married to Stephen. We’ve known each other just seven months and we’re in love with each other. What’s going to happen?” Jane, in her utter astonishment, half-rose from the bench.
“We—we’re not in love with each other,” she protested hotly.
“Jane”—said Jimmy sadly—“don’t waste time in prevarication. The night is all too short as it is.”
“I’m not in love with you,” said Jane, sinking back on the bench.
“Oh, yes, you are,” said Jimmy.
“I love Stephen,” said Jane, staring straight into his eyes.
“Yes,” said Jimmy; “that makes it worse, for you’re not in love with him. There’s a great difference, you know, in those two states of mind, or rather of emotion. You’re in love with me and I’m in love with you. I haven’t been in love with Agnes for years. I don’t even love her, any more. She’s irritated me too often. I respect her—she amuses me—I’m grateful to her—”
“Jimmy! Don’t talk like that!” cried Jane sharply.
“But you love Stephen,” went on Jimmy imperturbably. “Which complicates everything, for of course you’ll want to consider him.”
“Consider him!” cried Jane. “Of course I want to consider him!”
“Yes,” said Jimmy reasonably. “That’s what I said. That’s what makes it so difficult.”
“Makes what so difficult?” cried Jane.
“My persuading you to come away with me,” said Jimmy calmly.
“Have you lost your mind?” demanded Jane.
“For you are going to come away with me, in the end, Jane,” said Jimmy. “But I’ll have to do an awful lot of talking first.”
“I’m not in love with you,” said Jane again. Meeting Jimmy’s eyes, however, her glance fell before his gaze.
“No use in not facing it, Jane,” said Jimmy.
“I—I didn’t even know you were in love with me,” said Jane. “You—you’ve never made love to me except—except just that once—”
“I’ve been making love to you, Jane,” said Jimmy, “from the moment that you resented that kiss. Not before. I just kissed you for the fun of it, and you were quite right to resent it. But since then, Jane, I haven’t thrown a glance or said a word that wasn’t arrant lovemaking. Oh”—he stopped her indignant protest—“I know you never recognized it. You’re invincibly innocent. Any other woman would have known it at once, and would either have kicked me out or responded in kind. In either case I’d have tired of her in two months.”
“You’re asking me to respond in kind, now,” said Jane tremulously. “At least—at least I suppose you are.”
“You bet I am,” said Jimmy.
“So that you can tire of me in two months?” asked Jane.
“So that
