"You needn't tell us," said Ben's mother, touching him. "Just come if you can; or whenever you can."
Jay went to the telegraph desk, where he wrote out the words that had been forming in his head for the last hour: "Don't be sorry," he read to himself in whispers after he had written it. "Be glad. I am." He signed it and dispatched it to Lida.
That bound the matter; that bound him. So, definitely committed, he went out to the blowing snow of the street and strode eastward, facing the blizzard. Glad? He was not glad. That was untrue; that was a lie, but of the sort that had to be told. The only way to do this was gladly; or as if you were glad; as if you wanted to. "Marry her; I marry her. Marry . . . Lyda; Leeda; my wife . . ." The idea ran into images of her in his arms; Lida embracing him; her kisses; his lips on hers.
Pleasant in a car to kiss her and embrace her; or under the trees after a dance. She was a warm little sprite. He liked her, that way. He had liked her very much as a companion in the light-hearted, reckless expeditions in Westchester county and Connecticut. She had delighted in them; and they had done no harm, no real harm—until Nucast.
When Jay had let her know that he would be in New York for a weekend, Lida would "sign out" at school but she would not go home. She and another girl would meet Jay and another man—never Ben—and the four of them would drive out in the country, sometimes to friends' houses; roadhouses, sometimes. Always, at night, he would leave Lida at some safe and chaperoned place such as his sister's home in Westchester county.
