Ethel went at once to her desk and rapidly wrote a note to Dwight, saying she thought it would be better to let Mrs. Crothers come alone.

“For I could do nothing, with him around.  And I’ve got to do everything!” she thought as she folded the envelope.

In the morning she heard from Joe.  When a messenger came with a note, she tore it open and read this: 

“Please give this man my suit-case and put in what things I need.  I shall stay here at the club awhile—­it will be better all around.  I am sorry for the scene I made and I don’t want another.  If you have any real explanation, send me word and I will come.  But understand it has got to be real.  If it is not we can’t go on.  I guess you see that.”

She read it again.  Then glancing up at the messenger, who was plainly curious at the expression on her face, she frowned at him impatiently.

“Will you wait downstairs!” she said.  “It will take some little time to find the things my husband wants.”

Rid of him, she began again and read the letter with desperate care.  Yes, Joe was trying to be fair.  To have said he was sorry for that scene was rather decent in him.  “Oh, yes, but he’ll make another!” she thought.  “Don’t I know how he is—­all tired and nervous and unstrung?  If my explanation doesn’t seem real he’ll fly up and leave me, and then we’ll be through!” She clenched the letter and told herself that her explanation must be real.  It was her one chance—­she must take time, and get good sensible advice.  Joe had Fanny Carr about.  That was certain.  She’d never leave him alone.  She was busily bolstering up her side.  And Ethel needed somebody, too, on her side—­right behind her.  Sally Crothers—­Joe’s old friend!

She packed Joe’s things and sent them to him with a little letter:  “I am glad you said you were sorry, Joe, for the way you acted was very unfair.  You are quite right in waiting now—­it is better for both of us to cool down.  But my explanation is simple and real—­as you will see.  I shall send for you in a few days.  I love you, dear.  I love you.”

After that, she spent hours in anxious reflection.  Now about Sally Crothers, she thought.  Should she tell her the trouble she was in?  No, not at once.  New Yorkers hate trouble and always fly from it—­so she must lead to it gradually.  “When she comes I’ve got to make her like me—­very much—­so much she’s surprised!” To begin with, looks—­for looks did count.  That much of what Amy had said was true.  “But what I must do is not to look like her.  Sally Crothers detested her, and I’ve got to overcome all that.  I must show her I’m quite different.”  For a time Ethel’s mind dwelt on details.  It must all be so simple, yet not too severe.  “For Sally is gay, I understand.  What I want is to look halfway between Mrs. Grewe and Emily Giles.  Black?  No.  Dark blue, with that old Rhinestone pin.  Wave my hair?  No, that’s Amy again!”