“Well, she’s been a good wife to him,” he repeated futilely.
“There you go again,” she exclaimed. “I’ve been a good wife to you, too, haven’t I?”
“Indeed you have, my dear,” he answered gratefully.
“But was I contented with being just that? When we came to this town as poor as church mice and you got the position in the bank, I made up my mind that you should be president of that bank some day, and you are, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my dear, and I owe everything to you—”
“Not everything, Mr. Cutter,” she interrupted with a sniff; “but I helped you; I made friends for you; I showed off before people to let them know you were prosperous and a coming man. I had some pride.”
“You did, my dear. You were game and looked it,” he answered with a watery smile of memory in his eye.
“And I bore a son for you.”
“You ought not to blame Helen; you can’t—” he began.
“Yes, I can,” she interrupted; “if she isn’t to have children, if poor George’s name is to die with him, she might at least help him enjoy his own career. But she doesn’t; she is becalmed. She hasn’t got it in her, I tell you, to do what I have done to show my pride and appreciation of the position you have made for us.”