She shook her head. "No. And I shall never care again. He can do what he likes. He's free—and so are you. I'd rather he went to you. Eleven years, did you say? Why, he was your husband long before he was mine."
"Oh no; he was never my husband. We agreed from the first—"
"He wasn't your husband according to the strict letter of the contract; but I don't care anything about that. It's what I call being your husband. I'd rather you took him back.... Oh, my God! There he is."
He was standing on the other side of the street watching them. How long he had been there neither of them knew. Engrossed in the subject between them, and screened by their sunshades, they hadn't noticed him come round the corner from Madison Avenue on his way home. He stood leaning on his stick, stroking an end of his long mustache pensively. He wore a gray suit and a soft gray felt hat. For a minute or more there was no change in his attitude, even when the terrified eyes of the women told him he was observed. As he began to thread his way among the vehicles to cross the street he displayed neither haste nor confusion. Edith could see that, though he was pale and grave, he could, even in this situation, carry himself with dignity. In its way it was something to be glad of. She herself stood her ground as a man on a sinking ship waits for the waves to engulf him.
Reaching the pavement, he ignored his wife to go directly to the woman.
"What does this mean, Maggie?"
His tone was not so much stern as reproachful. The faded woman, who was still trying to make herself young and pretty, quailed at it.
Edith came to her relief:
"Isn't that something for you to explain, Chip?"
He turned to his wife. "I'm willing to explain anything you like, Edith—as far as I can."