“I know that he is wicked.”
“How do you know?”
“I feel it.”
He snorted and turned over. He slept that night with his back to this slanderer, who did not sleep at all.
CHAPTER XII
The next day George Cutter’s spirits had revived and with them a certain hope. He resolved to have it out with Helen. She was not reasonable. Few women were, but he knew that she loved him. He might count on that.
In the evening after dinner they sat before the fire in the parlor. Helen wore a dark dress, plain, durable, unbecoming. He considered this dress, the woman in it, with a coolly impartial eye. His heart failed him. He doubted if she could pull it off if she would. If, for example, she could be made to realize the importance of dressing handsomely and extravagantly every day. If she could be induced to live the life she would have to live. He admitted it was a sort of puppet existence. But as necessary to his success as the dummies in a shop window are to advertise the owner’s trade. Ten thousand women did it all the time, liked it. Still Helen was not one of them. She was removed by nature, every instinct, from that class. He was half a mind to give up the whole thing. At this moment, Helen looked across at him. There was a hint of tears in her eyes, a fugitive smile on her lips as if this smile pleaded with him for a certain forgiveness.
He laughed. He stood up and took her in his arms.