Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

back for hours. We didn't get in to a movie. I lay there a long time, that morning, thinking of all this. And always, I was stopped at that one point. "You don't understand. I can't explain it to you." Jimmy had said those things to me. My Jimmy, whom I had thought so close to me that we didn't need words for ik understanding, had implied that ^ there were things he could feel and P^ know, which I never could. And I realized, suddenly, that there were lots of things, little things, that should have shown me Jimmy was drifting away from me. Now, I know what I should have done. I should have run to Jimmy, while it was all fresh in my mind and told him how frightened I was, how I felt. And, maybe, if I had, Jimmy would have told me all about his own feelings and all this stupidity and mess could have been averted. But I was hurt and bewildered and I thought only of myself. In a way, we were both at fault, I guess. But I see now that most of the fault was mine. Someone once said, wisely, that the art of love lies in forever finding something new in the same person. Well, Jimmy was always new to me. His business contacts kept him on his toes, his mind alive, growing. Every day, he brought home all this freshness, this newness to me. And I? I'm afraid I didn't change. I'm afraid I still lived in a dream world, full of hazy illusions and vague longings. I wanted us to "live happily ever after" and I was sure we would. Just like that! These are things I understand and know, now. I didn't see them, then. Then, my pride was shattered, my belief in our love was gone. And, because I couldn't bear to stay around the house, where everything reminded me of my failure, I threw myself into a flurry of social activity and, very soon, found a balm, if not for my heart, certainly for my vanity. I made the happy discovery that other men found me attractive, even if Jimmy no longer did. And I thought that was better than nothing. XIAVING started on this path quite innocently, out of sheer pique and loneliness, I soon found myself being swept along it, almost against my will. Our marriage automatically became the kind of marriage, which, in some circles, is considered the ideal — one of these terribly modern, you-go-your-way-I'll-gomine affairs. Looking back on it, I don't see how Jimmy stood it. I know, now, that he was unhappy and confused and just as miserable without me, as I was without him. But I didn't find that out until much later — when it was all over. Then, I just drifted along, not caring too much where I was going. I'm still not quite clear how it happened that the circle of my admirers — and I had them — narrowed itself down to Raymond Haslitt. Ray fascinated me. He was the kind of person people are afraid not to know. He was rather thin, with blond hair and a long, sardonic looking face. His eyes were steely gray and deep set and wise, not in a kindly way, but in a cold, analytical way that saw right through people to their most hidden weaknesses. And Ray had no qualms about using the secrets his sharp eyes uncovered. His wit was based on exposing people's foibles. Maybe the other men began to stay away from me, because they were afraid of Ray's tongue. Maybe the choice was mine. Maybe I preferred Ray to the others, because I could be with him and never think of Jimmy, never find some word, some gesture, reminding me of Jimmy and forcing me to make comparisons. I don't know. One Fall evening, after a round of night clubs, instead of heading for River road to take me home, Ray drove to his own apartment house. "It's late," I said, not getting out of the car. Ray grinned at me. "Time for a talk, my sweet." He pulled me out of the car. We rode up on the elevator to his penthouse in silence. He led me out to the terrace, pushed me into a chair and poured himself a drink. He stood before me, looking at me thoughtfully for a long time. Finally, he said, "How long does this go on?" "This—?" I asked. "This imitation love affair — call it what you like," Ray said. "Are you in love with me, Janice?" I stared at him. "I — I don't know. No, I don't think I am," I said in a small voice. He laughed. "Well, that'.s an honest beginning." He sprawled out on a wicker settee and he was just a shadow in the darkness. "Now, we can talk this over without any sentimental nonsense. Will you marry me, Janice?" I was stunned. "Marry — ?" I stammered. "I'm married — I just said I don't love you — I — " "Wait," Ray said quietly. "Let me explain. I'm going to be perfectly frank with you. I don't know whether I love you, or not. I hope I don't. From all I've seen, love isn't much of a foundation for marriage. Look at yourself. You were in love with Jim, weren't you?" I nodded dazedly. "All right, what happened? You fell out of love and then you had nothing to hang on to." "If that's the way you feel," I said, "why do you want to marry me — or anyone?" Ray chuckled. "Maybe I don't love you, but I want you. You're a very lovely creature — very desirable. It's more than that, though. I'm pretty lonely. I know a lot of people, but I don't like them and they don't like me. Most of them are just afraid of me. Of all the people I know — especially women — you're about the only person I could stand having around. So here it is. I can't honestly offer you love, but I can give you companionship, a luxurious, amusing life and a reasonable amount of passion." "But there's Jimmy — " I began. "Come now," Ray said. "Isn't it a little late to resurrect your conscience? You be frank, too. Actually, you've been unfaithful to Jim for xuly, 1942 19