In the clear light of calm, sane reasoning, it was all so absurd, so impossible! What could I have been thinking of?
Of Jerry, of course.
With hot cheeks I answered my own question.

And even the thought of him then cast the spell of his presence about me, and again I was back in the whirl of dining and dancing and motoring, with his dear face at my side.

Of Jerry; yes, of Jerry I was thinking.

But I must forget Jerry.
I pictured Jerry in Andersonville, in my own home.

I tried to picture him talking to Father, to Mother.
Absurd! What had Jerry to do with learned treatises on stars, or with the humdrum, everyday life of a stupid small town?
For that matter, what had Father and Mother to do with dancing and motoring and painting society queens' portraits?
Nothing.
Plainly, even if Jerry, for the sake of the daughter, liked Father and Mother, Father and Mother certainly would not like Jerry.