“What happened to the man who had wanted to marry her?”
“He changed his mind about that, the first time he saw her in the
hospital. She is still married to Noel. She lives upstate with her
sister, and Noel visits her every other week-end; brings her books and
things.
“I believe that sometimes, she seems glad to see him, and that sometimes
she rails at him for two days on end. When she was convalescing from the
accident, she begged him to promise not to divorce her—he had plenty of
grounds at that time. He promised . . . well, Pat, does that explain why
I didn’t want you to meet him?”
“Yes, I suppose it does. I am not husband-hunting, though.”
“Now that you know—you can do what you please. Let’s dance, Pat.”
We danced, as if it had been any other evening. We were quite gay. When
we left Small’s, we found a Victoria wandering forlornly through Harlem,
and hired it, and drove home at snail’s pace through the Park.
Kenneth talked happily about his Hungarian dancer, as he had talked on
so many other evenings.
Then he said, “You know, Pat, you shouldn’t go adventuring in bed among
the portrait painters and the Russians. It isn’t any fun, is it?”
“I’ve stopped. I thought it ought to be fun, but it was always dreary
. . . like prospecting for gold and finding a coal mine. Coal has its
uses, but if it isn’t what one wanted to find. . . . The whole show,
kisses and the rest, was once so tied to the beauty-and-sweetness of
things. . . .”
“It is for me, still,” said Kenneth. “You know, Patricia, my wife was
the only woman with whom I ever slept, in my life.”