In my perfect simplicity I had no idea of what I was doing. It merely seemed to me that what every man of the world would have done in my place, was the right thing to do.
One evening, while I was closeted in my room with a friend, the Baron called. It was his first call since our wedding. My predecessor's visit seemed to me in bad taste, to say the least of it; but since he did not mind meeting me, I pretended to be pleased to see him. When I accompanied my friend to the door, however, I did not think it necessary to introduce him. Later on, my wife reproached me for the omission, and called me unmannerly. I accused both her and the Baron of tactlessness.
A violent quarrel ensued, in which she called me a boor. One word led to another, and certain pictures were mentioned which had once belonged to the Baron, but were now decorating my walls. I begged her to send them back to him.
"You cannot return presents without hurting the giver," she exclaimed. "He doesn't dream of returning the presents you gave him, but keeps them as a proof of his friendship and trust."
The pretty word "trust" disarmed me. But my eye fell on a piece of furniture which awakened unpleasant memories.
"Where does this writing-table come from?"
"It was my mother's."
She was speaking the truth, although she omitted to add that it had passed through her first husband's house.
What a strange lack of delicacy, what bad form, how utterly regardless of my honour! Was it done intentionally so as to depreciate me in the eyes of my fellow-men? Had I fallen into a trap set by an unscrupulous woman? I wondered....