“It is hard,” he said.
This closed the evening. The next morning Vincent went down-town. He went about half-past ten. Adelaide, breakfasting in her room and dressing at her leisure, did not appear until after eleven, and then discovered for the first time that her husband had gone. She was angry at Mathilde, who had breakfasted with him, at Pringle, for not telling her what was happening.
“You shouldn’t have let him go, Mathilde,” she said. “You are old enough to have some judgment in such matters. He is not strong enough. He almost fainted yesterday.”
“But, Mama,” protested the girl, “I could not stop Mr. Farron. I don’t think even you could have if he’d made up his mind.”
“Tell Pringle to order the motor at once,” was her mother’s answer.
Her distraction at her husband’s imprudence touched Mathilde so that she forgot everything else between them.
“O Mama,” she said, “I’m so sorry you’re worried! I’m sorry I’m one of your worries; but don’t you see I love Pete just as you do Mr. Farron?”
“God help you, then!” said Adelaide, quickly, and went to her room to put on with a haste none the less meticulous her small velvet hat, her veil, her spotless, pale gloves, her muff, and warm coat.
She drove to Vincent’s office. It was not really care for his health that drove her, but the restlessness of despair; she had reached a point where she was more wretched away from him than with him.
The office was high in a gigantic building. Every one knew her by sight, the giant at the door and the men in the elevators. Once in the office itself, a junior partner hurried to her side.