and waited for one man with whom, God sparing him, she would go to the end of her life.
The land of her home was fashioned for fidelity—a sparse, sandy farmland settled by couples who had little company but each other, who had to bear with each other and count upon each other, whatever happened, if they were to survive at all. Marital faithfulness was, therefore, no pretty bit of virtue for them; it was necessity; and they scorned and cast out transgressors.
A city of three millions made no such rigorous requirements; city people prospered according to a different code, as Di swiftly had discovered. Di was adapting herself; Ellen was not and would not. To her, marriage must remain a permanent relation, entered into once and for all. It formed, incomparably, the transcendent act of a girl's life. She came in contact with, only to deny, the idea of it held by girls born and bred like Lida under conditions which never made of constancy anything more serious than a matter of choice and where marriage was only one of the innumerable expedients of a girl's social career.
Accordingly Ellen did not think of Lida's relation with Jay from Lida's point of view; she thought of Lida as likely to claim Jay for life. Yet in spite of this—indeed while feeling it—Ellen went to her mirror in the coat closet to see how she had looked to Jay this morning when he had gazed so at her. She needed powder and, opening her compact, she was reminded of Di, who had not returned to their room before Ellen left for the office.
Nor had Di been located when Ellen had phoned an hour ago; however, now she was in.
