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No doubt one reason he was untrue to her was that she was too pure for his debauched fancy. Thus reasoned Drumley with that mingling of truth and error characteristic of those who speculate about matters of which they have small and unfixed experience. "About yourself," he proceeded.
While the maid was at work, she wrote this note: DEAREST Mr. Drumley will tell you why I have gone. You will find some money under your handkerchiefs in the bureau. When you are on your feet again, I may come if you want me. It won't be any use for you to look for me. I ought to have gone before, but I was selfish and blind. Good-by, dear love I wasn't so bad as you always suspected.
Afterward, Spenser used to send him to dine with Susan and to spend the evenings with her when he himself had to be or wished to be elsewhere. When she was with Drumley he knew she was not "up to any of her old tricks."
Even Drumley went back on me let 'em put a roast of my last play in the Herald a telegraphed roast from New Haven said it was a dead failure. And who wrote it? Why, some newspaper correspondent in the pay of the Syndicate and that means Brent. And of course it was a dead failure. So I gave up and here I am. . . . This your room?" "Yes." "Where's this nightshirt come from?"
And the ideas were not new to her. Rod had often talked them in a general way and she had thought much about them. Until now she had never seen how they applied to Rod and herself. But she was seeing and feeling it now so acutely that if she had tried to speak or to move she could not have done so. After a long pause, Drumley said: "Do you comprehend what I mean?"
She hadn't a doubt of the truth of her loyal defense. And Drumley could not have raised a doubt, even if she had been seeing the expression of his face. His long practice of the modern editorial art of clearness and brevity and compact statement had enabled him to put into those few sentences more than another might have been unable to express in hours of explanation and appeal.
"And true. . . . I suppose it is the best a woman can expect to be the one he returns to. And isn't that enough?" "You are very different from any woman I ever met," said Drumley. "Very different from what you were last fall wonderfully different. But you were different then, too." "I'd have been a strange sort of person if it weren't so. I've led a different life.
Drumley," said she. "But you must not talk of him to me." "I must," he replied. And he hastened to make the self-fooled hypocrite's familiar move to the safety of duty's skirts. "It would be a crime to keep silent." She rose. "I can't listen. It may be your duty to speak. It's my duty to refuse to hear." "He is overwhelmed with debt. He is about to lose his position.
Spenser read scenes to her, got her to help him with criticism, and she was present when he went over his work with Drumley, Riggs, Townsend and the others. Thus, reading a play was no untried art to her. She read "Cavalleria" through slowly, taking about an hour to it.
Having small and dwindling belief in the mentality of women, and no belief whatever in mentality as a force in the relations of the sexes, he was satisfied to have about her any man, however clever, provided he was absolutely devoid of physical charm. The friend who came oftenest was Drumley, an editorial writer who had been his chum at college and had got him the place on the Herald.
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