"Oh, every now and then some report went round in Boston that So-and-so had seen you in this hotel or that; but nothing of the sort has been said for a year or two, and we thought that it was just the kind of fake story that gets about. But now! Well, I must break the news to Vio—"
"Why shouldn't I break it myself? I could call her up by long distance."
"Man, if she heard your voice like that it would kill her. You don't know. No, I must go; there's no help for it, headache or no headache. Mildred dear, won't you call Annette? I told her she could go to the theater to-night, but now she'll have to get our tickets, and pack!" She wrung her hands. "Oh, dear! When a man's dead, he'd better stay dead!"
Mildred slipped from the room. A suspicion began to creep over me.
"Is there any special reason for my staying dead?"
"How can you when you're alive? That's the important point. Vio will never forgive you for being alive—and not telling her."
"She will when she's heard."
"She's got to hear right away, and I'm going to take charge of it. You may say it's none of my business, but I'm making it mine. I've known Vio Torrance since we were tots together."
I ventured to remind her that Vio might be her friend, but that she was my wife.
"Wife!" she crowed, scornfully. "Have you treated her like a wife—to be alive all this time and never let her know! When I tell you that she's been in mourning for you and out again—positively out again— Well, you can imagine!"