She had planned an evening's excavation into her correspondence and
had not changed her street dress. She was surprised and childishly
delighted to have him with her--then childishly unhappy as she
observed:
"But you're all togged up. You're going out."
"No--well--that is--er--I was thinking you would like to see a show.
I've got tickets."
"But it's late. I'm not dressed."
"What's the odds? You look all right. There's never anybody but
muckers there Saturday nights. We'll miss it all if you stop
to prink."
"All right," she cried, and hurried through the dinner.
He was glad at least that he had escaped a solemn evening at home.
He could not keep awake at home.
So they went to the theater; but there was not "nobody there," as
he had promised.
Zada was there--alone in a box, dressed in her best, and wearing
her East-Lynniest look of pathos.
The coincidence was not occult. After several hours of brave battle
with grief and a lonely dinner Zada had been faced by the appalling
prospect of an evening alone.
She remembered Cheever's purchase of the theater tickets, and she
was startled with an intuition that he would take his wife in her
place. Men are capable of such indecent economies.
Zada was suffocated with rage at the possibility. She always
believed implicitly in the worst things she could think of. If
Peter Cheever dared do such a thing! And of course he would! Well,
she would just find out!
She threw a lonely wineglass at the fern-dish and smashed a decanter.
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