A pent-up breath escaped Jeannette like a moan. A scene flashed before her mind: a dark street,—the street just in front of the office—it was late and the crowd of clerks and workers was pouring out of the doorway, hurrying homeward with gravity in their hearts and the news on their lips that Chandler B. Corey, the president of the company, had that day dropped dead at his desk. And among these sobered men and women walked herself, shocked and shaken, trying to realize that the best friend she had in the world was gone, and would never be at hand again to advise her nor be interested in what befell her. As she stepped into the street a man in a slouch hat confronted her, demanding to know if she was Mrs. Martin Devlin, thrust a folded paper at her, and disappeared. She remembered drawing back, frightened and affronted, and after the man had made off, rescuing the paper from the sidewalk at her feet where it had fallen. It was dark in the street,—too dark to read. She recalled holding the paper up to decipher what was printed on the first page, and then, indifferent, her heart and mind heavy with the tragedy of the day, had thrust it into her muff and sorrowfully made her way homeward. Days later, when she remembered the incident and searched her muff, the paper had disappeared. It had fallen out; it was gone; and she dismissed the matter from her mind.
Now she realized the folded paper had been the summons bidding her come to court to defend herself against calumny, and to show reason why Martin Devlin should not be free to take unto himself another wife!
Suddenly something very precious died within her dismally. The excitement of the night dwindled and departed; the piquancy of her adventure drooped and faded; her interest in a situation that had up to that minute stirred pulse and imagination, shrivelled and evaporated. She was weary and bored; she felt disgusted and sick; she wanted to be quit of the whole affair, of smiling, alert, complacent Ruthie, of the homely, clumsy children, of this sleek, fat, selfish man beside her! ... Ah, she had been a fool ever to think ... ever to imagine.... A woman of her position, sensible, capable, independent,—stout, settled, middle-aged and gray! ... Oh, it was detestable,—it was humiliating,—insufferable!
They were at the hotel.
“You don’t want to let what I told you bother you, Jan. I never stopped to think how you’d feel about it. And you want to remember that those things never get out; they’re all kept strictly Q.T. It happened six or seven years ago and there isn’t a soul—Here, I’m coming in with you.”
“You needn’t bother, Martin.”
“That’s all right. I’ll see you inside.”
They moved through the revolving glass doors and mounted the steps into the brilliant lobby.
“Well, it’s been great to see you, and I surely have enjoyed talking over old times. By God, it’s been a great evening.”
“Yes, indeed. It’s been very amusing.”