That was another mite of wisdom she had
garnered from the wives of her circle.
So she kissed Bill good-by at the station next day with perfect good
humor and no parting emotion of any particular keenness. And if he
were a trifle sober he showed no sign of resentment, nor uttered any
futile wishes that she could accompany him.
"So long," he said from the car steps. "I'll keep in touch--all I can."
Then he was gone.
Somehow, his absence made less difference than Hazel had anticipated.
She had secretly expected to be very lonely at first. And she was not.
She began to realize that, unconsciously, they had of late so arranged
their manner of life that separation was a question of degree rather
than kind. It seemed that she could never quite forego the impression
that Bill was near at hand. She always thought of him as downtown or
in the living-room, with his feet up on the mantel and a cigar in his
mouth. Even when in her hand she held a telegram dated at a point five
hundred or a thousand miles or double that distance away she did not
experience the feeling of complete bodily absence. She always felt as
if he were near. Only at night, when there was no long arm to pillow
her head, no good-night kiss as she dozed into slumber, she missed him,
realized that he was far away.
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