"Why?"
"You can't stay away from the house. Something might happen."
"Croak! Croak!"
He passed his hand impatiently over his face. "I'm a fool!" he
exclaimed. "I must learn to be content with what I have--when it's so
much--so vastly more than I ever dared hope--or--" He stared out into
the darkness. The ducks among the reeds close inshore were quacking
discontented forebodings of rain. "I trifle with my good fortune."
"What's the matter, dear?" she asked, her cheek against his.
"Nothing. Nothing."
"What have you been thinking while I was away? ... Look at me, Basil."
"It seems to me I can't ever look--anyone in the face again."
She understood who "anyone" was. She pressed closer to him, said
caressingly: "Except me. You can always look at me, and I at you. And
what more do we want?"
He did not echo her tender reckless laugh, with its threat of a storm of
hysterical tears. "You have good excuse for what you've done. But
there's no excuse for me."
She seemed to be shrinking within herself. He gently put her on the arm
of the chair, went to the window, stood there with his back to her.
"The truth is, I've been in hell since you left, Courtney--a hell of
remorse!"
"Remorse! Excuse!" Her bosom heaved; her eyes flashed. "Oh, you men!
What hypocrites you are! ... Tell me, do you wish to give me up?"
He faced her. "I cannot give you up," was his inflexible reply.
"Then dismiss all these gloomy ideas," urged she. "Excuse? You think I
have the excuse of--of his indifference, of his tyranny and bad
temper--of his----"
"For God's sake, Courtney, _don't_ say those things!"
"I think them--you think them. Why not say them?"
"Yes--you are right. I am a hypocrite."
"How easily we hurt each other," she sighed. Then, "But how easily it
heals, too." She went on: "We were talking of excuses. Anyone can find
an excuse for anything. Only weak people look for excuses." She
elevated her head proudly. "I want no excuse for what I did, for what
I'm doing. I need no excuse. Do I not own my heart, my self? I have
the right of my youth, of my love. Isn't that enough?"
"The right of our love!" he exclaimed, as gay and confident as he had
been depressed and doubtful. "We're wasting time. Let's talk and think
only of love." And he drew her down into the chair, into his arms.
"Courtney--when he does come--promise me you will not--will not----"
There he halted, for the wave that passed over her as she lay in his
arms told him that she understood. "You know I will not," she said. "I
belong to _you_, now."
"But he may----"
She laid her fingers on his lips. "Trust me," she said. "I've planned
it all. Only, that's the one thing we mustn't ever talk about." She
laughed, with desperate straining to be audacious. "There is honor,
even in the dishonorable."
"You--dishonorable? I, perhaps--yes, certainly. But you--you belong to
yourself. It is I who will play the part of dishonor. You can be as
cold and distant as you like. I must smile and pretend to be a friend."
He shrugged his shoulders, laughed unpleasantly.
"That's manly!" exclaimed she, nerves instantly unstrung.
"What can you expect of--of _me_?" he replied, so down that she
straightway relented.
"Let's drop this subject, dear," she pleaded. "Let's never speak of it
again--and think of it as little as possible. It's one of the conditions
of our life. We will admit it--and ignore it."
"How can we drop a subject that crops out, comes to the tips of our
tongues, every time we look at each other? But be patient, dear. I
shall grow hardened----"
"Oh, but you must not, Basil!" she cried in dismay. "_We_ must not.
That's our danger, and we must fight it.... Isn't it pitiful! If we
were two coarse people, mere animals, merely the ordinary man and woman,
why, we'd be happy and never give remorse a thought."
"If we suffer more, we enjoy more," said he, clasping her as if some
power had tried to snatch her away. "When I feel ashamed, Courtney, all
I have to do is to remember your hair, to feel again its soft splendor
on my face, between my fingers--and I am delirious."
"Love--always love!" she murmured. "No price too great to pay for it."
They heard steps--stealthy steps--upon the walk, just under the bedroom
window. "Yes, yes, I hear," he whispered, as in the darkness she
clutched his arm. He went to the open window, she sitting up, rigid,
wide-eyed, with bated breath. Keeping in the shadow, he glanced down.
He saw a man, half hidden in the shrubbery. A moment and his eyes
focused so that he saw the outline of the man's face, the angle of his
head--saw that the man was peering up toward that very window. He went
softly back to her. "Go into the sitting room," he said. "I think it's
one of those prowlers."
"Sh-h!" she warned. "Listen-- On the stairs."
Both stopped breathing and listened. It was the faintest of sounds, but
unmistakable. Yes, it was a robber. He was ascending the
stairway--slowly, silently, steadily, up and up, step by step. Now they
would miss the sound altogether; then it would come again--nearer,
softer. Their hands were clasped--were like ice, but without a tremor.
"How did he get in?" she breathed.
"Don't you remember? I left the outside door unlocked--wide open."
"Sh-h!"
"Go back into the sitting room," he whispered.
"No--I stay here with you."
The awful sound, so faint, so relentless, was in the hall. "Go!" he
commanded. "You'd be in my way, dear. If I need you, I'll call."
She saw that he was right--that at least he must not feel hampered. She
pressed his hand, glided into the sitting room. Suddenly she almost
cried out. "Is the bedroom door locked?" she called in a hoarse
undertone.
He made a silent dash for it, to lock it. Too late. It opened. He
could see nothing in the black hall. He made a forward leap, right hand
clinched, left hand open and ready to inclose a throat. His fist thrust
past the man's head, but his left fingers closed upon the throat, and
his weight bore the man to the floor. But the prowler was not taken
wholly by surprise. Basil instantly realized how fortunate it was that
he had got the initial advantage. The two grappled; a short, sharp
struggle and Gallatin felt the form under him relax. He took an even
stronger hold on the throat, planted his knee squarely in the chest.
"I've got him!" he cried to Courtney. "Go! Go!"
But he triumphed too soon. With a tremendous effort the prowler tore
Gallatin's fingers from his throat. "Good God, Gallatin--is it _you_?"
he gasped.
"Vaughan!"
Gallatin dropped all to pieces. But Courtney was instantly herself--and
more. On went the lights, and she burst out laughing. Gallatin rose,
staggered over to the window seat. Vaughan, not without difficulty,
picked himself up from the floor, gazed savagely from Gallatin to his
wife. She kept on laughing, more and more wildly, laughed until she
fell into a chair, sat there laughing, with the tears rolling down her
cheeks. "Was ever anything so ridiculous!" she gasped. And she looked
from one to the other, and went off again.
Vaughan, straightening his collar and coat and waistcoat, appealed to
Gallatin. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.
By way of reply Gallatin stared at him, as if debating whether or not to
renew the attack.
"What does this mean, Courtney?" Vaughan said to her sharply.
"That's what _we'd_ like to know," replied she.
"Why did Gallatin----"
"Serves you right," interrupted Courtney. "Why did you come prowling
round here? Why didn't you go home?"
Vaughan looked sheepish. "Well, I wanted to make sure everything was
all right here."
Courtney smiled with resentment in her raillery. "You were more anxious
about your workshop than about your wife and child."
Vaughan reddened. "Oh, I knew everything was all right at the house,"
he stammered. His glance fell upon the tumbled bed. "Why!" he
exclaimed. "Some one's living here!"
Gallatin, startled, was standing up with his hands clinched. But she
had no fear. She did not feel guilty toward this man, who was nothing
real to her; and she knew enough about him to know that his absolute
belief that good women were good, and could not stray even in thought,
made it impossible to tax his credulity. All that was necessary was
boldness. "Mr. Gallatin is living here," said she composedly.
"Gallatin!" exclaimed Vaughan. "Why, I locked the whole place up." He
wheeled on Basil. "How did you get in here?" he asked. "Didn't I make
it plain to you from the outset--didn't we have a distinct
understanding----"
"Richard!" interrupted Courtney sharply. "Mr. Gallatin is here because
I sent him here."
Richard concentrated his angry attention upon her. "You! What right had
you----"
"You will not address me in that tone," said she haughtily. "You come
back home, like a thief in the night. You give me a fright. You half
kill Mr. Gallatin, and then you begin to quarrel. I repeat, Mr.
Gallatin is here because I sent him."
"I thought it best to live here while you were away," said Gallatin
stiffly. He did not wish to throw upon Courtney the whole burden, yet
he hardly dared speak, as he could not see how she hoped to extricate
herself and him. In his guilt, in his ignorance of such a character as
Richard's, he was amazed at her having hope. He thought her courage
superhuman.
Vaughan glanced, half amused, half disdainful, from one to the other.
"Are you two still disliking each other? I had forgotten that."
"You are mistaken," said Gallatin. "I do not dislike Mrs. Vaughan."
But Vaughan did not hear. "What on earth--" he suddenly ejaculated,
staring at Gallatin, then at Courtney--"What on earth were you two doing
here in the dark?"
Gallatin grew white as chalk. But Vaughan was looking at Courtney. "We
weren't in the dark," said she, with never a tremor of eye or voice.
"We were in the sitting room." As she spoke she threw open the door
between the two rooms. Gallatin gazed into the sitting room like a man
seeing a miracle. The lights there were all bright. The instant she
had heard her husband's outcry, she had turned on the lights in both
rooms, the buttons being on either side of the same wall just beyond the
door frame; and she had closed the sitting-room door before the two rose
from the floor.
"Come in here," she said, leading the way. "I kept getting more and
more afraid at the house," she went on in rapid, easy explanation. "It
was very lonesome--there were several robberies in the neighborhood--and
Nanny and Lizzie and Mazie sleep so far away from my rooms. I took
Winchie and went home for a couple of days, but it wasn't convenient for
me to stay there--and so dull! I came back to-night, and strolled down
here after dinner to make my peace with Basil--" Here she made a
mocking bow to him--"and to ask him to please come up and guard the
house. How well you're looking, Richard!"
"I do feel bang up," said Vaughan, "except here--" He touched his
throat where Gallatin's fingers had closed in. "The trip was just what
I needed. I went to a specialist in New York, and I serve notice on
both of you that I've turned over a new leaf. I'll take regular
exercise again--and stop grinding away all day and all evening. The
great discovery of the fuel that will make it as cheap to be warm as to
be cold can wait. Perhaps it'll come the sooner if I keep in
condition."
"That's sensible," said Courtney. "And you must live at home, and let
Mr. Gallatin stay on here."
"It's good advice. I'll take it," assented Vaughan promptly. "Being
here tempts me to work when I ought to be resting." He threw a
good-humored look at Gallatin. "I guess you're not likely to succumb to
that temptation, old man."
"Not I," said Basil, with the first sickly hint of a smile.
"Gad, it's good to be home!" Vaughan was gazing at Courtney now, in his
eyes the proprietorial look, bold, amorous. "She's looking
well--eh--Gallatin?"
Basil did not answer. He was glowering at Vaughan, and biting his lip,
and his fingers were twitching.
Courtney rose. "Let's all go up to the house," proposed she: "You'll
come, won't you, Mr.--beg pardon--Basil?"
Gallatin stared coldly at her. Her "superhuman courage" now seemed
sheer brazenness to him. "Thanks--no," said he in a suffocating voice.
"Hope I didn't damage you, Gallatin," said Vaughan with the rather
careless solicitude of man for man.
"Not in the least," replied Gallatin curtly.
"Oh, come now, old man," cried Richard. "Look at my throat." He
inspected it himself in the mirror ruefully. "If I can forgive you, you
ought to forgive me. Come along, Courtney."
He took her by the arm, smiling at her, she mustering a return smile.
Basil was looking intently at her, with an expression of cold fury.
When he caught her eye he sneered. She, already at the breaking pitch,
could not endure that contempt. She looked piteously at him, gave a low
cry, sank upon the sofa, fell over in a dead faint.
Basil gazed stupidly at her. Vaughan dashed into the bath room,
reappeared with a wet towel, rubbed her temples and her wrists with it.
She opened her eyes, looked round--saw Basil. "Take me away!" she
sobbed. "Take me away!"
Her husband gathered her into his arms as if she were a tired child.
"Good night, Gallatin. See you in the morning," he said, and strode out
with her.
Gallatin fell into one of those futile rages that are the steam of the
strife between a man's desire and his courage. "It's my love for her,"
he assured himself, "that keeps me from following him and taking her
from him." He found small comfort in this, however; for, he suspected
it was only part--a minor part--of a truth, the rest of which was
altogether to his discredit. He sat, he leaned, he stood at the bedroom
window overlooking the path. Again and again he fancied he saw her, a
new and deeper shadow in the shadows beneath the trees. Whenever the
wind stirred a bush there, his fanciful hope made it her cloak. He knew
it was impossible for her to return; but he could not give up. He did
not leave the window until dawn. Then, he lay on the bed, exhausted,
wretched, burning with hate for Richard, with rage against her, with
contempt for himself.
*XIII*
Toward eight o'clock came Vaughan, in high spirits. Basil, stiff and
sore, was still lying on the bed.
"Sure you don't want breakfast?" said Richard. Then, getting a view of
his partner's face: "You _are_ a sight! I beg pardon, old man. I've
got a few marks, myself. But-- _You_ must have the doctor."
"No, thanks," was Basil's surly answer. "I'm all right."
"But you ought to do something for that eye--and that cheek. I sure did
give you some hard punches." As this sounded as if it were--and
was--not without a certain pride, he added: "The worst you gave me are
hidden by my clothes--except these finger marks. What a stupid thing
for me to do! And poor Courtney's quite done up this morning. Really,
old man, you'd better let me send for the doctor."
"I'll telephone for him," said Basil. "I want to be left alone."
"Beg pardon. I've done nothing but apologize ever since I got home.
Well, I'll go to work. Don't bother to come down to-day. I shan't need
you."
Gallatin muttered "Selfish beast," as soon as Dick was clear of the
room. And it was undeniable that Dick's pretense of sympathy had been
rather more offhand than such pretenses usually are. He had never had
to conciliate and cultivate his fellow beings in getting a living, and
had been brought up indulgently by Colonel 'Kill and Eudosia. Thus he
was candid in his selfishness, often appeared worse than would a man who
was in reality more selfish, but was through fear or training, less
self-revealing. However, Basil was not one with the right in any
circumstances to be censorious of such undiplomatic conduct; for he,
too, had been born and bred to wealth and security, and had been
"spoiled" by a worshipful family.
Not for a week did he dare show his face. Dick called twice a day--did
all the talking--always about the chemistry into which he had plunged
with freshened energy and enthusiasm. Usually he apologized for
Courtney's not coming--"She still feels weak and upset," he would say,
"and wants me to make her excuses. I tell her you'd refuse to see her
even if she could come."
When Basil's face and complexion were once more about normal, he waited
until Richard was at work downstairs, then adventured the path to the
house. He found Courtney in the sitting room, in a negligee, sewing;
Winchie was building a lofty house of blocks on the veranda just outside
for her to admire. He scowled at Winchie; Winchie scowled at him and,
when his back was turned, made a face at him. "Good morning, Mrs.
Vaughan," said he coldly. "I've come to pack my traps." In a lower
tone that was menacing, he added, "I want to see you."
She laid aside her sewing, a strained expression in the eyes that shone
wistfully in her pallid face. The boy dropped the block he was putting
into place and stood up. "Go on with the house, Winchie," said she.
Then to Basil, "You may come right upstairs."
She preceded him into the study on the left of the upper hall--the study
that had been his, and was now Richard's. He, following, closed the
door, advanced toward her with lowering brow and angry eyes.
"It's very imprudent to close the door," said she, calmly returning his
gaze. "Nanny is at work across the hall."
"Did you break your promise to me that night?" he demanded.
"I'll answer no question--not even from you, Basil--when it's in that
tone."
"First you want me to open the door, so that I can't speak out," sneered
he. "Now you evade.... You admit your degradation. I knew why you
were keeping away from me."
"That was not my reason," she stammered, with lowered head.
"You lie! You are doubly false. You have no shame. Now I understand
why you said those bold things--why you acted so free--as no innocent
woman could. You--expert!"
Her eyes were milky like a tortured sea; her face became ghastly; she
trembled so that she had to steady herself at the back of a chair.
"Basil!" she exclaimed. "No, it's not you. What we've suffered since
he came has driven you mad. It has almost crazed me."
"Answer me!" he commanded fiercely. "Did you or did you not break your
promise to me?"
Suddenly she drew herself up, and with the sad dignity of guilt that has
been expiated she said: "I ask you to pity me." And she stood there,
pale and haggard, a statue of wretchedness.
His fury could not hold against that spectacle--and she, the proud,
asking for pity! "It's I who should be ashamed," he cried. "How I have
suffered! What a coward--what a cur I am!"
She rushed to him. "Oh, my love! What we've been suffering has only
made you dearer to me, dearer than ever! There's no bond like
suffering."
He was about to take her outstretched hands when suspicion flamed into
his eyes again. "How easily you twist me round your finger!" he said
roughly. "Now, there's your making me move down to the shop. Why
should you want to get me out of the house when, if I were here, we
could see each other all the time?"
She showed no resentment, felt none. "It's natural you should suspect
me," said she. "I'd suspect you in the same circumstances. I see now
how absurd it was to dream of happiness founded on lies. No happiness
for us--not even joy now and then. If we didn't love each other, we
might be happy. But we do love, and misery is all we can expect. I'll
tell you why I wanted you down there." She paused, went on with veiled
eyes and bright red in her cheeks. "As I said to you, even dishonor has
its honor. I didn't want us meeting here--with my boy--and his--so
near."
Basil looked as if he were about to sink down under his shame and
self-contempt. "Forgive me. What a hound I am!" he muttered.
"As for my free actions and free speech----"
"Courtney!" he begged, seizing her hands. "Don't speak of that."
"I must explain," she insisted gently, freeing herself. "I'll always
explain everything to you. As I told you, I wanted to be free with you,
perfectly free. So I said and did the things any woman who loved would
think and feel, but most women hold back for fear of spoiling a lover's
ideal. I didn't want you to idealize me, but to love me just as I was,
just for what I am."
"And I do--I do!" he cried, trying to draw her into his arms.
"Yes, you do, I believe," answered she, insistently drawing back. "I
know you truly love, and you know I truly love. I know you are a man
any woman would be proud to have love her, and you know I'm not a low or
a bad woman. Yet, see how it turns out.... Basil, we must give it up!"
"Give it up!" He was bristling with suspicion at once.
"You must go away."
He laughed scornfully. "That is your kind, considerate way of
dismissing me. What vanity! I shall suffer no more than you."
"Not so much," she answered sadly.
"I shall go away and marry."
"You can't make me jealous now, Basil. Not after what you've been to
me. I mean just what I say. You must go, and I'll try to be to my
husband all a wife should be. If you'd been through what I've been
through--that night and since--you'd understand. Basil, do you remember
how I lied, how I laughed and cheated--like an 'expert,' as you say.
Oh, you must have despised me! If you had done what I did, had done it
as fluently, I'd have loathed you."
"And what about me? Didn't I stand there, a contemptible coward, and
let him take you away?"
"What else could you have done?"
"Shown myself a man!"
"And ruined me--and my child? Oh, no, dear. You love me too well for
that." She startled, listened. "He's coming," she warned, flying to
the door. She opened it softly to its full width, advanced composedly
into the hall, saying in her usual voice, "Then Jimmie'll take your
things down about four o'clock."
Richard, on his way up, had reached the head of the stairs. "Oh!" he
exclaimed. "Here you are! I asked Winchie where you were, and he said
he didn't know. So I've been hunting all over the place for you. I
want you to take a walk with me."
"Certainly," said she tranquilly. "I'm talking business with Basil. Go
down and help Winchie finish his house, and we'll take him along. I'll
come in a few minutes."
"All right!" said Dick cheerfully. He shouted out, "Hey, Gallatin,
how's your grouch?" and descended the stairs, laughing as he went.
As she reentered the sitting room, she said, with the quietness of the
emotions that are too deep and too terrible for tumult, "Am I not
'expert'? How long do you think we could keep this sort of thing up
without becoming--I tell you, Basil, looking within myself as I've lain
in the dark, I've realized it takes decent people--people with nerves
and imaginations and sense of right and wrong--to become frightful, if
they once get on the down grade. Did you hear what he said about
Winchie?"
"Yes," muttered Basil. He was at the desk, his elbows on it, his hands
supporting his head.
"Winchie knew where I was. Why did he lie to his father? Already a
liar!"
"I must go. You are right-- But, Courtney--you must get a divorce."
"I've thought of that. On what ground? And how can I leave him
alone--take Winchie away from him?"
"You must get a divorce."
"I think so, too," assented she. "But I will not lie to do it. I'm
done with lies. I'll tell him."
"No--let's go to him together." Basil's face lighted up, his manner
became enthusiastic. He thought he saw a way to redeem his manhood put
in pawn for this sin so dear yet so detestable. "Together!" he
exclaimed. "He is generous and broadminded."
She shook her head. "Men are not generous and broadminded where women
are concerned--the women they look on as theirs."
He colored and glanced guiltily at her. But it was plain that she had
not in mind his own exhibition of the male attitude toward the female.
His memory of it helped him to appreciate the folly of his proposal.
But he would not give in at once. "I'd not suggest it, if he really
loved you. But----"
"If he really loved me, he'd have felt the truth long ago. If he really
loved me, he'd wish me to be happy--would give me up. But then--if he
had really loved me, none of this would ever have happened. No, Basil,
it's because he doesn't love me, because it's only passion that takes
and gives nothing, that uses and doesn't think or care about the
feelings of its creature----"
Basil, horror-stricken by this bald candor, ashamed for her, stopped
her. "Let's not talk about it," he pleaded. "As for the divorce, I
leave it to you. You know best how to deal with him."
His manner and its cause had not escaped her, with nerves keyed up to
the snapping point. Once again he had raised in her heart the dread
lest their love would not mean the perfect frankness, the perfect
oneness of which she had dreamed. Did a man always demand and compel
concealment and pretense in the woman? But she thrust out the doubt.
"I'll do what seems best," she said to him, avoiding his eyes and
speaking with constraint. "I don't know Richard very well. You see, we
never got acquainted. He's like most men. They don't want the woman,
but only the outside.... He's so wrapped up in his work that I think I
can free myself."
He took her hands, gazed into her eyes. "Yes," he said, "you do love
me. You feel that we belong to each other, just as I do. So when I'm
away I'll know you are coming--as soon as you can."
"As soon as I can," she replied. And the expression of her eyes,
meeting his steadfastly, and the deep notes in her sweet voice thrilled
him with a new sense of her love and of her constancy. This woman had
not given in whim; she would not change in whim.
"I will go--to-morrow," he said. "The sooner I go, the sooner I shall
have you. Will you come to-night to say good-by?"
"Don't ask it, dear. I mustn't ever again--until I'm free."
"In the summer house, then. For a few minutes. We can't part like
this."
"Yes, I'll come."
Along the hall from the foot of the stairs sounded Richard's imperious,
impatient voice. "I say, Courtney! Do hurry!"
"I can't go for a walk with him now," she said, half to herself. "I'll
make some excuse." She looked at Basil, he at her. In their eyes was a
sadness beyond words and tears. And what would it be when he was really
gone? "I mustn't linger here--I mustn't!" she cried. "And don't come
near me when he's around. I can't control myself."
They clung together for an instant, then she fled.
She made vague household matters her excuse for not taking the walk.
She did not see Richard alone until late that afternoon. She was in her
and Winchie's big bathroom, which she also used as a dressing room. As
she sat at the dressing table there, in petticoat and corset cover,
doing her finger nails, he walked in. "May I come?" said he, already in
the middle of the room.
She glanced at him, or, rather, in his direction, by way of the mirror
and went on with her polishing. But she was not resentful of the scant
courtesy of this intrusion. In the beginning of their married life she,
through love, had confirmed him in his life-long habit of considering
only himself and of expecting himself to be considered first. Now,
indifference was making her as compliant as love had made her. And it
was just as well. An attempt to assert herself would have seemed to him
a revolt which pride and duty made it imperative for him to put down.
The man a woman has spoiled through love, or the woman a man has
spoiled, must be born again to be got back within bounds.
"You don't ask how I happen to be home so early--nearly an hour before
supper," said he.
"It _is_ early," replied she absently.
"I've made up my mind not to kill myself with work and no exercise, and
to give more time to my family. I had a chance to look at myself--at my
way of life--from the outside while I was in the East. And I'm going to
try to live a more human life, though it'll not be easy to work less,
when Gallatin's leaving me."
Until he spoke Gallatin's name she had not heard a word. We are all
surrounded at all times in our customary haunts by a multitude of
unchanging objects, animate and inanimate. We become practically
unconscious of them so long as they maintain the same relative position
toward us. We notice only changes, only those changes that are radical.
Richard had long been to Courtney a mere familiar part of her
environment--as she of his. She could look at him without seeing him,
could answer him without having really heard. She could submit to his
caresses without any sense of them. This unconsciousness was not
deliberate; it was far deeper, it was habitual. At Gallatin's name,
however, she began to listen.
"Yes, he's going," said Richard.
She inspected the nail of her right little finger. "Is he?" she asked,
head on one side critically and emery slip poised.
"For good. And I'm not sorry. He's of less and less use to me at the
laboratory. His mind isn't on it." There Richard laughed.
"I thought you felt you couldn't get on without him," said she,
searching in a box for an orange-wood stick.
"That was some time ago. I suppose you're glad he's going."
"Why?"
"I know you don't like him. You've been very good about it, and I
appreciate your being polite to him. But I can see that you dislike
him."