least, until her husband tells her. Sidney's been guarded, and it's bound to be a shock.”
“It's her own choice.”
“Exactly. A child reaches out for the fire.”
The motor had started. For the moment, at least, the younger Wilson had no interest in Sidney Page.
“She'll manage all right. Plenty of other girls have taken the training and come through without spoiling their zest for life.”
Already, as the car moved off, his mind was on his appointment for the evening.
Sidney, after her involuntary bath in the river, had gone into temporary eclipse at the White Springs Hotel. In the oven of the kitchen stove sat her two small white shoes, stuffed with paper so that they might dry in shape. Back in a detached laundry, a sympathetic maid was ironing various soft white garments, and singing as she worked.
Sidney sat in a rocking-chair in a hot bedroom. She was carefully swathed in a sheet from neck to toes, except for her arms, and she was being as philosophic as possible. After all, it was a good chance to think things over. She had very little time to think, generally.
She meant to give up Joe Drummond. She didn't want to hurt him. Well, there was that to think over and a matter of probation dresses to be talked over later with her Aunt Harriet. Also, there was a great deal of advice to K. Le Moyne, who was ridiculously extravagant, before trusting the house to him. She folded her white arms and prepared to think over all these things. As a matter of fact, she went mentally, like an arrow to its mark, to the younger Wilson—to his straight figure in its white coat, to his dark eyes and heavy hair, to the cleft in his chin when he smiled.
“You know, I have always been more than half in love with you myself...”
Some one tapped lightly at the door. She was back again in the stuffy hotel room, clutching the sheet about her.
“Yes?”
“It's Le Moyne. Are you all right?”
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