out a
cup. It was strong now, thank Heaven! And frowning gravely into space,
Ethel sat and drank her tea.

CHAPTER XXIV

"Now the one thing," she told herself, "is to keep your nerve and be
sensible. For this may decide your whole life, you know. . . All
right, what next? What's to be done?

"I hate Sally Crothers," she began, "but I may go to see her,
nevertheless. She asked me to. Didn't mean it, of course, she was
plainly bored! No, I won't do it! I loathe the woman! . . . All
right, my dear, but who else can you go to? Mrs. Grewe? She's
doubtless at home--but there may be that detestable hat, tall, rich and
shiny, in her hall. It looked as though it owned her soul! No,
thanks--not yet--not for me! . . . Though she told me you soon get
used to it. . . .

"Well, how about going back to Ohio, to the little history prof, and
hating all men--one and all! That sounds exceedingly tempting! . . .
I won't do it, though--because if I do, it means I'm beaten here--and
I'd lose Susette and the baby!--. . . Quiet, now. . . . And then
there's Dwight. He will probably call up soon and ask how Sally and I
got on. I could go to him this very night! How perfectly disgusting!
And yet it's just what Joe deserves! What right had he to believe that
of me? . . . Now please keep cool. If I go to Dwight I become
exactly like Mrs. Grewe--and I'd have to give up the children.

"No, it's back to Joe on my knees, to beg him to let me stay right here.
And I'll succeed--I know I will! But won't I be under Fanny's thumb?
And won't I take back Amy's friends? Like a good repentant scared
little girl! And eat their rich meals and chatter as they do, and dance
and grow old--and push Joe on to make more money--more and more--so that
I can get fat and soft--like the rest of these cats!"

Again her face was quivering. But with an effort controlling herself,
she went into the nursery. And on the floor with her wee son, slowly
rolling a big red ball back and forth to each other, soon again she had
grown quiet, almost like her natural self. She took supper alone, and
then read a novel, page after page, without comprehending. An hour
later she went to bed, and there lay listening to the town--to its
numberless voices, distinct and confused, from windows close by and from
the street, and from other streets by hundreds and from a million other
homes, and from the two rivers and the sea--voices blurred and
fused in one. And its tone, to Ethel's ear