they were quietly settled in Venice he "meant to write."
Already nascent in her breast was the fierce resolve of the
author's wife to defend her husband's privacy and facilitate his
encounters with the Muse. It was abominable, simply abominable,
that Ellie Vanderlyn should have drawn her into such a trap!

Well--there was nothing for it but to make a clean breast of the
whole thing to Nick. The trivial incident of the cigars-how
trivial it now seemed!--showed her the kind of stand he would
take, and communicated to her something of his own
uncompromising energy. She would tell him the whole story in
the morning, and try to find a way out with him: Susy's faith
in her power of finding a way out was inexhaustible. But
suddenly she remembered the adjuration at the end of Mrs.
Vanderlyn's letter: "If you're ever owed me anything in the way
of kindness, you won't, on your sacred honour, say a word to
Nick ...."

It was, of course, exactly what no one had the right to ask of
her: if indeed the word "right", could be used in any
conceivable relation to this coil of wrongs. But the fact
remained that, in the way of kindness, she did owe much to
Ellie; and that this was the first payment her friend had ever
exacted. She found herself, in fact, in exactly the same
position as when Ursula Gillow, using the same argument, had
appealed to her to give up Nick Lansing. Yes, Susy reflected;
but then Nelson Vanderlyn had been kind to her too; and the
money Ellie had been so kind with was Nelson's .... The queer
edifice of Susy's standards tottered on its base she honestly
didn't know where fairness lay, as between so much that was