“Well?” I said; I felt that in justice to myself I should be harsh in
this interview. “Well, what have you to say for yourself?”
She stared at me with a light in her eyes that made me doubt her
sanity.
“Nothing,” she said, in that irritating, soft voice of hers. “I don’t
know—I cannot think—what to do.”
I leaned against the wall just inside the doorway. I was quite calm; I
even permitted myself to smile.
“Won’t you go away now?” she added, almost in a whisper. “You must
leave me alone—I must think—decide—”
She seemed to be still on the verge of hysteria and I concluded it
would be useless for me to go on talking then.
“It is a great shock to me,” I said deliberately, “to find that of all
the women in the world I should have chosen one who was bad.”
With that I turned and left her.
I spent that evening at the club—trying to forget in the card-playing
the trouble that had come upon me so abruptly.
The next morning when I went to see Ruth in her room, I found she had
gone, taking with her only a few personal effects! I called up Gerald
Rolf immediately after breakfast; they told me he had left the city.
* * * * *
That was six months ago. She did not come back and she has asked me
now to divorce her. She says she has found happiness, and I suppose
she thinks she has. I shall divorce her, of course. I have always
tried to do the right thing. But the unavoidable publicity will hurt
me terribly.
I have told you what occurred, plainly. I have nothing to add. I tried
my best. Yet, in spite of that—and the injustice of it sometimes makes
me very bitter—my marriage has been a failure.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 12, 1920 issue
of The Argosy magazine.]