“Sure, you could marry anybody.”
“No, I don’t believe it. And I’m fond of him, too. And I’d like to have children. I always thought we’d have children.”
She looked at me very brightly. “I never liked children much, but I don’t want to think I’ll never have them. I always thought I’d have them and then like them.”
“He’s got children.”
“Oh, yes. He’s got children, and he’s got money, and he’s got a rich mother, and he’s written a book, and nobody will publish my stuff; nobody at all. It isn’t bad, either. And I haven’t got any money at all. I could have had alimony, but I got the divorce the quickest way.”
She looked at me again very brightly.
“It isn’t right. It’s my own fault and it’s not, too. I ought to have known better. And when I tell him he just cries and says he can’t marry. Why can’t he marry? I’d be a good wife. I’m easy to get along with. I leave him alone. It doesn’t do any good.”
“It’s a rotten shame.”
“Yes, it is a rotten shame. But there’s no use talking about it, is there? Come on, let’s go back to the café.”
“And of course there isn’t anything I can do.”
“No. Just don’t let him know I talked to you. I know what he wants.” Now for the first time she dropped her bright, terribly cheerful manner. “He wants to go back to New York alone, and be there when his book comes out so when a lot of little chickens like it. That’s what he wants.”
“Maybe they won’t like it. I don’t think he’s that way. Really.”