The talk went on, with interruptions for supper and Sally’s two small children, far into the evening.  And Mrs. Crothers did her share—­filling in for Ethel the picture of Joe’s old life, his work and dreams, and his first marriage.  She told of several meetings with Amy.  And all the time she kept watching, probing into this young second wife, skilfully raising Ethel’s hopes, her vivid freshness and her youth, her hunger for a life she saw only in dazzling glimpses.

“Do you want my advice about meeting Joe!  Then here it is,” she said at the end.  “I needn’t say don’t go on your knees—­”

“You needn’t!”

“I thought so—­you’re not that kind.  And I wouldn’t explain too much about Dwight, and those little things you did with him.  Make Joe take you on faith or not at all.  Have a long talk and make him listen—­don’t give him a chance to say a word.  Talk right on and give him the picture of his two wives, and then let him choose—­between letting you go, while he takes her friends, or dropping them and keeping you and finding what he had before.  I can help you in that—­but before I do, I think you’ve got to lay a ghost.  She’s in the way of everything.  She has been in your home long enough.  And her strength is the fact that you and Joe never mention her name to each other.  I wonder if you realize how great a danger that has been.  At any rate I’m very sure that you must break the silence now.  It has been like a spell between you.”

CHAPTER XXVI

The next afternoon she sat waiting for Joe.  She had come home the night before feeling so strong and sure of her course.  But beginning at the moment when she came into the empty apartment, subtly and by slow degrees again her home had cast its spell, as though the rooms were haunted.  “I’ve got to lay the ghost,” she thought.  She had telephoned to Joe to come, and he had replied abruptly, “All right, I’ll be there about four o’clock.”  It was just that now.  Ethel poked the logs in the fireplace until there was a cheerful blaze.  As she straightened up she caught sight of her face in the mirror over the mantel.  Even in the firelight how gaunt and strained it looked to her.

“Not very attractive,” she grimly thought.  “This has got to be done by brains, my dear.”

In a moment she heard Joe’s key in the door.  She heard him taking off his coat and then coming slowly into the room.  With an effort she turned and looked at him.  His face appeared even more tense and grey than it had two days before; the nerves seemed quivering under the skin.  And she felt a pang of pity.  “He wasn’t to blame for the way he acted, it was his wretched nerves,” she thought.  “He’ll have a break-down after this.”

“Well, Ethel!”

“Oh, Joe, I’m so glad you’re here.”  All at once she felt herself change.  She had meant to be so firm with him; but now, after one quick anxious look, in a low eager voice she said, “I’m not going to talk much of myself.  It won’t do any good—­I’m sure it won’t.  I love you, Joe, and I can see you still love me.  We need each other.  And if we can just be sensible now—­and you can only believe in me—­”