“I could remind you of several things—you remember them, do you not? But they were not the real cause. It was, I think, the little things—it always is the little things, like drops of water wearing away the stone. And they wore away the feeling I had for you—carried it away grain by grain. Forgive me, George—.” The tears were streaming down her face. “I loved you—you were my life—I have lost you. And I’m alone—and a woman. No, no—don’t misunderstand my crying—my love is dead. Sometimes I think I ought to hate you for killing it. But I don’t.”
“Thank you,” he said, springing to his feet. His lips were drawn back in a sneer and he was shaking with anger. He took up his hat and coat. “I shall not intrude longer.” He bowed with mock respect. “Good-night—good-bye.”
“George!” She started up. “We must not part, with you in anger against me.”
He gave her a furious look and left the apartment. “What a marriage!” he said to himself. “Bah! She’ll send me a note in the morning.” But this prophecy was instantly faced with the memory of her expression as she gave her decision.
And Emily did not send for him. She tore up in the morning the note she rose in the night to write.
The next evening while she and the Waylands were dining at the Ritz, Victoria Fenton came in with Kilboggan and sat where Emily could study her at leisure.
“Isn’t that a beautiful woman?” she said to Theresa.
“Yes—a gorgeous animal,” Theresa replied, after a critical survey. “And how she does love food!”
Emily was grateful.
“She looks rather common too,” Theresa continued. “What a bad face the fellow she’s with has.”