“What became of the man—her husband? How did he take it?”
“Well. Very well, indeed. Level-headed fellow. Of course, he was upset
at first over her condition; but when we made it clear to him that she
was incurable he calmed down. He went home and slept on it for a night or
two—”
“How do you suppose,” I broke in (I really could not resist asking
it)—“How do you suppose he got to sleep without—”
“... And then he applied for a divorce,” continued Maynard, ignoring my
childish rudeness. “He wants to marry again, but, of course, our laws—”
“_Marry!_”
Maynard frowned. “One can see his point of view.”
“Yes; to be sure. And our laws ... quite unsympathetic—”
Maynard dismissed the matter with a magnanimous gesture. Also, his
kindling eye bespoke a concentration of interest which ignored the
trivial. He peered at me eagerly.
“What would you think, Wayne—I am studying the case, and I ask
for information—would you be led to believe that her reason for
wanting to kill him was a subconscious sensing of that trait in him,
that eagerness to be rid of whatever irked him, regardless of his
responsibilities? Or, on the other hand, would you think it a flair of
sex antagonism—resentment that he, unlike herself, could resume a normal
existence so soon after an emotional cataclysm?”