THAT night at dinner, Ruth and Wayne alone
Talked in the somewhat uninspiring tone
Of couples married almost twenty years:

"I need not go to Boston, it appears,
This week, at least

"My dear, I am so glad;
Your cold. . ."
"I haven't got a cold." "You had
A bad one Sunday."
"No, it wasn't bad."

And Ruth, who knew him as good sailors know
The weather, knew that he had meant to go
To see those porcelains sold. "And did you bid?"
She asked him.
"Yes, unhappily, I did."
He smiled and named the price he paid, and thought
Of Lee's turned profile; and as if she caught
His vision, Ruth began to speak of Lee. . .
How she had heard that afternoon at tea
The story of that pretty Mrs. Kent
They'd met. . . well, he'd remember whom she meant.
Yes, he remembered.
Was it all perhaps
One of those harmless, half-unconscious plots
That anguished wives will fashion to discover
Whether they see another woman's lover
Across their table - at their bedroom door. .
Who knows? Assuredly Ruth's manner bore
No sign. . . she told a story. . . nothing more.