"Was it when you--heard about me?"
"I like post-mortems, but I don't approve of them."
So she abandoned the post-mortem.
"Tell me," she said, "why you married her? Was she an old flame?"
"No, Lucy--a new flame."
"I hope you will be very, very happy," she said.
"But you doubt it."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Why indeed?"
"Listen. It--it wasn't any of it your fault. I tried to make you like
me, and succeeded, and the harm was done--but now we've settled down to
a harmless and quiet old age."
Had we? Oh, why had that pansy face and those great praying eyes come
into my life again? Would it be always so when we met, the heart
leaping, and the brain swimming, and the body shaken with tenderness
and desire?
I spoke no word of betrayal, but so standing a little to one side of
the passing crowds on the sidewalk, looking into that upturned face,
seeing those eyes so sad and prayerful above the smiling mouth, I
betrayed my wife for the first time, and Lucy read me like a primer,
and she knew that I loved her--either _still_ or once more. Of her own
emotions her face told me nothing.
"I hear," she said, "that you are both to volunteer as nurses. I think
that is splendid."
"If only I can live so as to help someone, Lucy. I am going to try
very hard. And I am going to try very hard to be a good husband, for
my wife has showered me with noble and priceless gifts."
After a moment: "I hope," said Lucy, "you're going on the American
line. The Germans seem to be torpedoing everything else in sight."
"We're sailing on the _Lusitania_."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
"They couldn't do anything to her. She's too big. You'll have some
distinguished company."
"Really! I haven't seen the passenger list."
"Why, there's Justus Miles Forman, and Charles Frohman, and Alfred
Vanderbilt and I don't know who all. . . . Well," she held out her
hand suddenly; "I've chores to do, thousands of them, so good luck to
you, and good-by, if I don't see you again."