She rebuked herself for thinking of Jim Dyckman as an orphan. He had
a father and mother who doted on him. He had wealth of his own and
millions to come. He had health and brawn enough for two. What right
had he to anybody's pity? Yet she pitied him.
And he pitied her.
And on this same train, in this same car, unnoticed and unnoticing,
sat Kedzie.
Jim and Charity grew increasingly embarrassed as the train drew into
New York. Charity was uncertain whether her husband would meet her
or not. Jim did not want to leave her to get home alone. She did not
want her husband to find her with Jim.
Cheever had excuse enough in his own life for suspecting other
people. He had always disliked Jim Dyckman because Dyckman had
always disliked him, and Jim's transparent face had announced the
fact with all the clarity of an illuminated signboard.
Also Charity had loved Jim before she met Cheever, and she made no
secret of being fond of him still. In their occasional quarrels,
Cheever had taunted her with wishing she had married Jim, and she
had retorted that she had indeed made a big mistake in her choice.
Lovers say such things--for lack of other weapons in such combats
as lovers inevitably wage, if only for exercise.
Charity did not really mean what she said, but at times Cheever
thought she did. He had warned her to keep away from Dyckman and
keep Dyckman away from her or there would be trouble. Cheever was
a powerful athlete and a boxer who made minor professionals look
ridiculous.
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