that he said. The whole atmosphere had changed in an
instant.

For those people over there were some of Amy's friends, no doubt, amused
at Joe and his young second wife, amused that Joe had not had the nerve
to ask them to his wedding. Ethel could feel herself burning inside. A
mistake not to have asked them? No! What had they to do with it? What
right had they, what hold on Joe? They had been a mighty poor lot of
friends, with empty minds and money hearts, just clothes and food,
late hours and wine! They had been decidedly bad for him, had drawn him
off from his real work and plunged him into the rush to be rich! A
voice within her, from underneath, was asking, "Or was it Amy?" But she
paid no heed to that. It asked, "Are you sure they are all so bad?
Have you taken the trouble to find out?" But angrily she answered that
she wanted friends of her own, that she couldn't be just a second wife.
"I've got to be all different, new! I've got to be--and I will, I
will!" She swallowed fiercely. Besides, it was what Joe needed,
exactly! He showed already what it had meant to be rid of such friends!
Had he ever talked of Paris before, or his dreams and ambitions or
anything real? But the voice retorted sharp and clear:

"Why hide it then? Why let this foolish dangerous habit of never
mentioning Amy's name keep growing up between you and your husband? It
may do a lot of harm, you know. What are you afraid of?"

Nothing whatever, she replied. She decided to speak of it then and
there. She would be perfectly natural, and ask him, "Who are your
friends over there? Some people Amy used to know?" And she grew rigid
all at once. Her throat contracted and felt dry. Angrily she bit her
lip . . . But the habit of silence was too strong. . . . Soon,
with a carefully pleasant smile, she was attending to his talk and by
her questions drawing out more and more of his life abroad.

"His work," she thought, "that's the strongest thing to hold his mind
away from those people." And soon she had him talking of the Beaux Arts,
architecture, plans and "periods" and "styles," things she was quite
vague about, but she did not have to listen now. That was always so
safe, she told herself. She was even a little jealous of this puzzling,
engrossing work, which could so hold her husband's mind. She frowned.
That was as it should be; a man's work was his own concern. But his
living, his home, what he did at night?

"This can't go on," she decided.