“Not for two or three months yet. Shock must be taken into consideration. . . . South America. Good idea. Interesting country. You would enjoy the trip yourself.” He kept his eyes on his plate, although the excellent fried chicken of the excellent cook might have been a rump steak. “I have no intention of going to South America. I expect to live in this house for the rest of my life.” “Oh—rather a monotonous life, that, for a girl of your age. And rather rash to be so certain of anything, isn’t it?” “Nothing rash about me,” muttered Gita. “When I make up my mind to do a thing I do it.” Pelham cast out another line, thankful for the discretion of Topper who remained in the room as little as possible. “I can’t imagine Eustace shut up in an old manor house in winter. New York owns him, body and soul.” “There will be nothing to keep him out of New York. He’s welcome to stay here as long as he’s an invalid, but when he goes it will be with the understanding he’s seen the last of the manor.” A brief silence and then Geoffrey stammered: “Do you intend to divorce him?” “How could I? What excuse?” And then she burst into a peal of laughter. The one plea she could advance was a husband’s wild attempt to enforce his rights. Her mantle fell from her. “Don’t ask me what I was laughing at! Poor Eustace! If he chooses to divorce me he can do so on the ground of desertion. We could meet in Paris. And of course he will want his freedom in time.” The precipitations of the past week had suddenly resolved themselves an hour since into a half-conscious determination to show Polly her place and Pelham that he was still hopelessly in her toils. But when she found herself alone with him in the dining-room she had anathematized herself as a fool and retreated in stiff panic from the results of any such exercise of power. Now she suddenly felt light-hearted once more. Her intense self-consciousness had fled with her gale of mirth. Blessed be humor. No reason they shouldn’t be friends until he went out of her life altogether. And she realized sharply that her most crying want this past week had been someone to talk to, a confidant. She had got used to talking things out. She, too, threw out a line. “Too bad Polly had to desert you today. I’m a poor substitute. Don’t know exactly how or what I’ve been feeling this last week. Remorse, I think, for not feeling remorse. Been as glum as—can’t think of anything emphatic enough. Felt, rather, as if I’d been stirred up with a spoon and nothing would settle. Better not try to diagnose me,” she added hastily. His gaze was very intense. “Are you and Polly engaged?” She shot out the question and then dropped her eyes in consternation. She had had no intention of being direct. “Certainly not. Neither I nor Polly has ever thought of such a thing.”