"_I'm_ evil. Projection, huh? You're kind of mixed up, Truesdale. _I_ wasn't with the blonde, last night."
"I'm not ready to believe I was either. But this--this evil can be mental."
"Your wife's been talking to you. What about her? What about this Henri?"
"What about him? You're treading on dangerous ground, you bushy-tailed rat."
"Am I? Henri likes the place. I've been showing it to him. And pointing out its advantages. No husbands to come home, unexpectedly." Hamilton paused. "He'll be up there, again. And with _whom_, Truesdale?"
"Not Ann. She's incorruptible, you devil."
"Sure, she is. So what are you worried about?"
From the back porch, Ann said, "Ted, what are you doing?"
He turned to face her, as did Hamilton. Ted said, "I was going to climb up and knock down that nest."
"Oh, forget it. It was a silly whim of mine, anyway. Look at him, Ted. He seems to be begging you."
"You don't know him," Ted said. "He fools us all."
"Oh, Ted, you've had too much sun this morning. Look at those bright, black eyes. He wants to be friends."
Hamilton sat up on his haunches, his front paws curled, looking from one to the other beseechingly.
Ted saw the quick moisture in Ann's eyes and said, "Well, it's your decision, then. It's your responsibility." He walked past her and into the house.
He went up to his room. Projection.... The little devil had hit him with that one. Don't blame yourself, Ted Truesdale. Ann has too many unimportant interests; Ann's cold. How many lines of communication did he have to her, other than the physical? Had he tried to find enough points of intellectual contact?
When they were first married it was all art with Ann. Because he was an artist. When she'd discovered he was an artist who knew nothing of art, that had died. The home, then, and she'd made him a home to be proud of. Wasn't it the place he spent most of his time, sitting around? But, with these interests, Ann had grown. While he sat, she'd grown.
She'd grown beyond bars and dancing and small talk. She didn't realize it, herself, but she'd grown beyond him. The two bedrooms had been originally his idea, so he wouldn't waken her if he read late at night.
And when that wasn't sufficient to kill his yawning hours, he'd tried to come back along the single, physical line of communication. What else did he have to offer her?