He could hear, but did not pay attention to, the women's voices in the kitchen. He knew Mrs. Violette was ironing, that Rosemary and Ethel were clearing away the dishes, all in the routine.
He stood in the midst of routine, plotting how he would break it, when he heard Rosemary's voice go suddenly high and full of passion and protest. He heard only the emotion, not the sense of what she said.
Then the kitchen door banged. He saw Paul Townsend straighten and lift his head. He saw Rosemary come stumb-
ling, slowly and distractedly, into as much of the scene as he could see.
Saw Paul drop his long-handled weeder and go quickly toward her.
Saw his head bending solicitously.
Saw that Rosemary was violently weeping.
Saw Paul lift his arms.
Saw her sag, as if it were impossible not to do so, into their embrace.
Mr. Gibson wrenched his head and turned away. He could see nothing. The living room was dark, dark as night, to his light-struck eyes. He must have made some sound, for he heard Ethel say, "What's the matter?" He knew she was there in the room and he knew that she went to look briefly out of the window behind him before he felt her strong hand under his elbow.
She guided him into his own place . . . for he felt so stricken he needed guidance. But after a moment or two Mr. Gibson's sight cleared and he was quite calm and extraordinarily free. He sat down in his leather chair and laid his cane on the floor carefully. "What did you say to make her cry like that?" he asked quietly.
Ethel clamped her mouth tight for a moment. "Never mind, dear. Never mind," she said rather softly. "It's just that Rosemary insists upon misunderstanding some perfectly simple remark of mine. She thinks I meant to reproach her ... as if I would. Of course she's emotional . . ." Ethel touched his knee, "just now. Ah Ken. I'm sorry we saw what we saw. I don't think it meant very much. Not yet."
"Yet?" he said shrewdly.
His sister drew a sigh from her shoesoles. "Ken, I am sorry to say so, but you were so foolish . . ."
"Was I? But what I wanted to do . . ." he organized his thought painfully (he cast out the phrase "in the first place") "was to make her well," he finished.
"So you have, I'm sure," said Ethel, with kind eyes. "But did you never look ahead to afterward? Didn't you realize that Rosemary, well, would not be the same girl?"
"I know."
"She is young. At least, comparatively . . ."
"I know. I knew that."
"When she was so ill," said Ethel, "she felt old. But she is not old. Nor does she feel old any more."
Mr. Gibson resented the kindergarten simplicity of this. "I know," he repeated.
"But the foolish thing, my poor Ken . . . was to bring her here—next door to such a man. A man who even shares a hobby with her! You have practically arranged for this to happen, you know."
Mr. Gibson couldn't assimilate his new thoughts. Thoughts like this had come nowhere near his mind before. Rosemary and Paul! He said, "Then they . . . they .?" "They've been friendly. Now, Ken, Rosemary is a good girl and devoted to you. But she is younger . . ." ( I know, screamed Mr. Gibson inside his head.) "And he is just the right age for her and a most attractive man. I think I could have prophesied," Ethel said sadly.
Mr. Gibson sat still and contemplated folly. Folly to rent this little house? He could never have prophesied. Ideas like this had not entered his mind.
"Like all handsome men," Ethel went on, "he is a little bit spoiled, I suppose. Careless. He wouldn't have the self-discipline not to be charming. He can't help exuding that physical magnetism. Poor Rosemary. You mustn't blame her, either. There is no blame. She'd have no way of knowing how she would be drawn. The body dictates. These things are beyond one's control really. My dear, you ought to move away at once."
But Mr. Gibson contemplated his crime. He had cheated her after all. He had given lip-service to his foreboding of this. (Yes, he had prophesied! Now he remembered . . . although too easily, selfishly, and in such foolish delight, he had forgotten all about it.) Of course, he could not blame Rosemary. "I don't blame her," he said aloud. "There is no such thing as blame," said Ethel gently. "Once you understand. She simply could not have helped herself."
"She must be . . ." He could imagine Rosemary's pain. "But does Paul . . ."
"Frankly," said Ethel, as if she had been being anything else, "I don't know how much he is attracted to Rosemary. She's not beautiful, of course, but very nice-looking and quite a lady. She is also so near. Propinquity is such a force."
Rather drearily Mr. Gibson supposed to himself that it was. He had no doubt that Paul was attracted to her.
"From his point of view," said Ethel looking shrewd, "there will be, as I say, the difficulty about the daughter. Oh, I've seen Jeanie watching Rosemary."
So had Mr. Gibson, now that he thought of it. Jeanie was s(5 quiet, sat so still in a room, watching everyone.
"There's the old lady, too," Ethel went on. "Paul's in no position to dash gaily into . . . well, let's call it romance. . . . Move away. Ken. Rosemary is essentially loyal. It may not be too late."
"Yes, it is," said he. He had remembered something. He had been puzzled at the time. Rosemary, standing in the living room, saying with such brooding fervor ". . . never known it was possible to have so good a time. . . ." And the occasion—had it not been the first evening she and Paul Townsend had ever spent in each other's company? Wisps, he supposed, of attraction spinning between them, even then. Oh, how inevitable it had been! He saw himself—old—and now lame. '
"If you want to keep her," Ethel said, "I know you are very fond of her. And Rosemary is deeply . . "
"I'm fond of her," he said grimly, cutting ofT the detestable word "grateful" before it could offend his ears once more. "But I have no intention of . . . how shall I put it? . . . collecting for services rendered."
"You are very wise," said Ethel.
"Especially," he said rather primly, "since we discussed the possibility of divorce before the wedding."
"Ah then . . ." Ethel sighed and her face brightened. "I'm very glad. Then she knows she can be free if that seems best? Well . . . this puts a different light on the matter. You and I could make do," she added thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said.
"It's not a bad life. We'd have our work. We'd be rather cozy, out of the fray. One should plan one's old age. Ken. And neither of us with chick nor child. Perhaps we ought to stick together."
"Perhaps," he agreed.
"Not here, of course."
"No."
"If Rosemary and Paul Townsend were to marry . . ."
"No," he said conquering the shudder that threatened to destroy his poise completely, "certainly not here."
"I wouldn't be precipitous, however," Ethel warned. ' ' If Paul is not . . . That is, if the thing's one-sided. Rosemary might need us."
"She needs to be rid of her obligations," he said harshly. Or how can she know surely . . . ?"
"You are so right," said Ethel warmly. "And when you |are generous and Rosemary is honorable, as I'm sure she is, why, there's no problem."
(He knew there was a little problem all his own. But he'd take care of that.)
"She'll come to you, one day," said Ethel, "when she finds the courage. I can't tell you how relieved I am, old dear, to know that you went into this with your eyes open. I've been a little bit afraid for you. A late-blooming romance can be so devastating to a born bachelor. Now then, can you sleep a little?"
"I think so," lied Mr. Gibson valiantly.
He lay on the top of his bed. He couldn't bear to imagine, from Rosemary's point of view, her dilemma. He tried to contemplate his old age.
But on another level, his plan beat in his mind. First find out what troubles Rosemary. Then, see to it that it troubles her no more.