He visited West Baden at the same time she did, as she suggested. He gave himself over to her in Chicago for dinners, parties, drives.
Her house was quite as much his own as hers—she made him feel so.
She talked to him about her affairs, showing him exactly how they stood and why she wished him to intervene in this and that matter.
She did not wish him to be much alone. She did not want him to think or regret.
She came to represent to him comfort, forgetfulness, rest from care.
With the others he visited at her house occasionally, and it gradually became rumored about that he would marry her.
Because of the fact that there had been so much discussion of his previous relationship, Letty decided that if ever this occurred it should be a quiet affair.
She wanted a simple explanation in the papers of how it had come about, and then afterward, when things were normal again and gossip had subsided, she would enter on a dazzling social display for his sake.
"Why not let us get married in April and go abroad for the summer?" she asked once, after they had reached a silent understanding that marriage would eventually follow.
"Let's go to Japan.
Then we can come back in the fall, and take a house on the drive."
Lester had been away from Jennie so long now that the first severe wave of self-reproach had passed.
He was still doubtful, but he preferred to stifle his misgivings.
"Very well," he replied, almost jokingly. "Only don't let there be any fuss about it."
"Do you really mean that, sweet?" she exclaimed, looking over at him; they had been spending the evening together quietly reading and chatting.
"I've thought about it a long while," he replied. "I don't see why not."
She came over to him and sat on his knee, putting her arms upon his shoulders.
"I can scarcely believe you said that," she said, looking at him curiously.
"Shall I take it back?" he asked.
"No, no.
It's agreed for April now.
And we'll go to Japan.
You can't change your mind.
There won't be any fuss.
But my, what a trousseau I will prepare!"
He smiled a little constrainedly as she tousled his head; there was a missing note somewhere in this gamut of happiness; perhaps it was because he was getting old.
CHAPTER LVII
In the meantime Jennie was going her way, settling herself in the markedly different world in which henceforth she was to move.
It seemed a terrible thing at first—this life without Lester.
Despite her own strong individuality, her ways had become so involved with his that there seemed to be no possibility of disentangling them.
Constantly she was with him in thought and action, just as though they had never separated.
Where was he now?
What was he doing?
What was he saying?
How was he looking?
In the mornings when she woke it was with the sense that he must be beside her.
At night as if she could not go to bed alone.
He would come after a while surely—ah, no, of course he would not come. Dear heaven, think of that!
Never any more.
And she wanted him so.
Again there were so many little trying things to adjust, for a change of this nature is too radical to be passed over lightly.
The explanation she had to make to Vesta was of all the most important.
This little girl, who was old enough now to see and think for herself, was not without her surmises and misgivings.
Vesta recalled that her mother had been accused of not being married to her father when she was born.
She had seen the article about Jennie and Lester in the Sunday paper at the time it had appeared—it had been shown to her at school—but she had had sense enough to say nothing about it, feeling somehow that Jennie would not like it.
Lester's disappearance was a complete surprise; but she had learned in the last two or three years that her mother was very sensitive, and that she could hurt her in unexpected ways.
Jennie was finally compelled to tell Vesta that Lester's fortune had been dependent on his leaving her, solely because she was not of his station.
Vesta listened soberly and half suspected the truth.
She felt terribly sorry for her mother, and, because of Jennie's obvious distress, she was trebly gay and courageous.
She refused outright the suggestion of going to a boarding-school and kept as close to her mother as she could.