That brief and illuminating episode in Wain’s had merely confirmed an impression that had slowly grown upon her, and her outburst of feeling that night had only been the overflowing of shamed anger at herself for letting his magnetic personality make so deep an impression on her that she could admit to him that she cared.  She felt that she had belittled herself by that.  But he was no longer a problem.  She wondered now how he ever could have been.  She recalled that once Jack Fyfe had soberly told her she would never sense life’s real values while she nursed so many illusions.  Monohan had been one of them.

“But it wouldn’t work,” she whispered to herself.  “I couldn’t do it.  He’d know I only did it because I was sorry, because I thought I should, because the old ties, and they seem so many and so strong in spite of everything, were harder to break than the new road is to follow alone.  He’d resent anything like pity for his loneliness.  And if Monohan has made any real trouble, it began over me, or at least it focussed on me.  And he might resent that.  He’s ten times a better man than I am a woman.  He thinks about the other fellow’s side of things.  I’m just what he said about Charlie, self-centered, a profound egotist.  If I really and truly loved Jack Fyfe, I’d be a jealous little fury if he so much as looked at another woman.  But I don’t, and I don’t see why I don’t.  I want to be loved; I want to love.  I’ve always wanted that so much that I’ll never dare trust my instincts about it again.  I wonder why people like me exist to go blundering about in the world, playing havoc with themselves and everybody else?”

Before she reached home, that self-sacrificing mood had vanished in the face of sundry twinges of pride.  Jack Fyfe hadn’t asked her to come back; he never would ask her to come back.  Of that she was quite sure.  She knew the stony determination of him too well.  Neither hope or heaven nor fear of hell would turn him aside when he had made a decision.  If he ever had moments of irresolution, he had successfully concealed any such weakness from those who knew him best.  No one ever felt called upon to pity Jack Fyfe, and in those rocked-ribbed qualities, Stella had an illuminating flash, perhaps lay the secret of his failure ever to stir in her that yearning tenderness which she knew herself to be capable of lavishing, which her nature impelled her to lavish on some one.

“Ah, well,” she sighed, when she came back to her rooms and put Fyfe’s letter away in a drawer.  “I’ll do the decent thing if they ask me.  I wonder what Jack would say if he knew what I’ve been debating with myself this afternoon?  I wonder if we were actually divorced and I’d made myself a reputation as a singer, and we happened to meet quite casually sometime, somewhere, just how we’d really feel about each other?”

She was still musing on that, in a detached, impersonal fashion, when she caught a car down to the theater for the matinee.