“Is your wife then enceinte, Stefan!”
“Yes, of course she is—she cares for nothing but having children.”
“But, Stefan!” Adolph's hands waved helplessly—he stammered. “It cannot be—it is impossible, impossible that you desert a beautiful and good wife who expects your child. I cannot believe it.”
“I haven't deserted her,” Stefan retorted angrily. “I only came away for a holiday, and the rest just happened. I should have been home by now if I hadn't met Felicity. Oh, you don't understand,” he groaned, watching his friend's grieved, embarrassed face. “I'm fond of Mary—devoted to her—but you don't know what the monotony of marriage does to a man of my sort.”
“No, I don't understand,” echoed his friend. “But now, Stefan,” and he brought his fist down on the table, “now you will go home, will you not, and try to make her happy?”
“I don't think she will forgive this,” muttered Stefan.
“This!” Adolph almost shouted. “This you will explain away, deny, so that it troubles her no more!”
“Oh, rot, Adolph, I can't lie to Mary,” and Stefan began to pace the room once more.
“For her sake, it seems to me you must,” his friend urged.
“Stop talking, Adolph; I want to think!” Stefan exclaimed. He walked in silence for a minute.