Free Tomorrow Is Forever by Gwen Bristow

she said.
    By this time they were spending their evenings together several times a week. It was characteristic of Spratt’s forthright habit of mind that several nights later, when they were having dinner again, he suddenly interrupted a pause in the conversation to say to her,
    â€œElizabeth, may I ask you a personal question?”
    â€œYou can ask it, of course,” she returned, “though if it’s very personal I don’t promise to answer it. What do you want to know?”
    â€œAbout your husband,” he said.
    Elizabeth looked down at the reflection of an overhead light on the surface of her coffee. “My husband was killed in the war,” she answered briefly.
    â€œForgive me, won’t you?” said Spratt.
    She looked up. Spratt was regarding her with a friendly contrition.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he continued. “I can see it’s not easy for you to recall it.”
    â€œNo, it’s not,” said Elizabeth. After an instant’s pause she went on, “Why did you want to know?”
    He smiled. “Frankly, for self-protection. Shall I explain?”
    â€œWhy yes, I wish you would.”
    He leaned a trifle nearer her. “Well, this isn’t an easy town to get around in, Elizabeth. You are Mrs., and you wear a wedding ring, but you live alone and I’ve never heard you mention your husband. We’ve been seeing a good deal of each other, and I’d like to keep on seeing you, but I wanted to make sure. I’ve had—well,” he said with a shrug, “one or two embarrassing experiences with unexpected husbands turning up. I hope this doesn’t make you angry,” he added.
    â€œWhy no, of course it doesn’t. I don’t mind saying it surprises me. I suppose I take it for granted that everyone knows I’m a widow, or at least that if I weren’t widowed or thoroughly divorced I shouldn’t be going out with men as casually as I do. But maybe I’ve been a bit naive for Hollywood—and anyway, as you noticed, I’m still reluctant to talk about it.”
    â€œThen we shan’t talk about it,” he said gently. “Thank you for understanding why I brought it up.”
    There was a pause. “Were you in the army?” she asked.
    â€œFor a little while. I never got across.”
    â€œAnd when did you come here?”
    â€œIn the first winter of the world’s hangover.” He spoke readily, evidently glad to turn the course of her attention. “Before we went into the war I had worked for an advertising agency in New York. We handled a lot of moving picture advertising, so after the war they sent me out to organize a branch office in Los Angeles. Then I got a chance to do studio publicity.”
    From there the talk went back to moving pictures. As he drove her home, Spratt said, “I’d like to see you over the weekend if you can manage it.”
    â€œI can, easily.”
    â€œGood. Would you rather go dancing at a night club Saturday night or spend Sunday at a swimming pool?”
    â€œSunday, swimming.”
    â€œTerrific, so would I. I’ve got to do a layout on one of my beauties, and I can do it either Saturday night or Sunday. So I’ll get rid of it Saturday night, and pick you up Sunday morning. I belong to a rather good country club and we’ll go there—swim, late lunch by the pool, get sunburnt in the afternoon. Right?”
    â€œSplendid.”
    He stopped the car in front of her apartment house and went up with her. At her door Spratt said,
    â€œElizabeth, about what came up at dinner. Don’t run away from it. Look at it hard, and take it.”
    â€œI do try to, Spratt,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve been trying to for a long time now, but I can’t always. Sometimes it—comes back. As if it had just happened yesterday.”
    â€œI think I understand. Though maybe I don’t—nothing’s easier