"So she came back to me," he said presently, "in a little less than a
year. Your little sister was your mother's offering of conciliation.
And we have lived happily. But things have never been with us quite as
they were. I have never known if your mother really got to loving me
again, or if she has raised a great monument of simulation and devotion
upon a pedestal of shame and remorse. Even now, if I drink a little
more than is good for me, she never criticizes. She feels that she has
forfeited that prerogative."
"What became of the man?"
"He died of heart failure," said my father, "in a disreputable place.
They tried to hush it up, but the facts came out. When I heard of it,
I plumped right down in a chair and laughed till I was almost sick. I
knew what he was," he said with sudden savageness, "all along. But
there is no making a woman believe what she doesn't want to believe.
He was fascinating to women, and a cur. He kept his compact with me,
not because of his given word, but because he was physically afraid of
me."
"Thank you for telling me all this, father," I said; "I like you better
and better. But in one way the cases aren't parallel. In Lucy's case
there is no other man."
"Not yet," said my father; "but when a woman no longer loves her
husband, look out for her. She has become a huntress--she is a lovely
sloop-of-war that has cleared her decks for action. . . . Are you
ready?"