And
they'd both of them been so sure that it was the chief reality that they
had ever known.
He wasn't _reasonable_. She hadn't wanted the darned old job, she'd wanted
to marry him, but as long as they hadn't seemed to get very far in the
last eight months when he'd been trying to work it--why couldn't _she_
try----
Then 'Oh Nancy, be honest!' to herself. No, that wasn't true. She'd wanted
the job, wanted to get it, hadn't thought about Oliver particularly when
she'd tried for it except to be a little impatient with him for not using
more judgment when he picked out his job. Did that mean that she didn't
love him? Oh Lord, it was all so mixed up.
Starting out so clearly at first and everything being so perfect--and then
the last four months and both getting tireder and tireder and all the
useless little misunderstandings that made you wonder how could you if you
really cared. And now this.
For an instant of mere relief from strain Nancy saw herself in Paris,
studying as she had always wanted to study, doing some real work, all
Paris hers to play with like a big gray stone toy, never having to worry
about loving, about being loved, about people you loved.
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