They wondered what her husband thought of such disbelief in everything that men, themselves disbelieving, held it imperative for women to believe—women and children and preachers. The fact was he knew nothing about it. Conversation between him and his wife was confined to the necessary routine matters, and never extended beyond a few sentences. They saw each other at table only; then Winchie did most of the talking, or it grew out of and centered round things he had inquired about. Richard and Courtney neither acted nor felt like strangers. That would have meant strain. They ignored each other with the easy unconsciousness that characterizes an intimate life in which there is no sympathy, no common interest. When Richard talked about his work, as he did occasionally, merely the better to arrange his thoughts, Courtney did not listen. When Courtney and Winchie talked together, Richard did not listen.
"You saw the news in to-day's paper?" said Richard at supper a few days after Christmas.
As he continued to look expectantly at her, she roused herself from her reverie, slowly grasped his question. "I didn't read to-day's papers," answered she.
"Well, Gallatin's engagement's announced—from Philadelphia."
She nerved herself for the reaction of inward turmoil which would, she felt, certainly follow such a blow. To her amazement no reaction came. She felt as calm as if the news had been about some one of whom she had never heard.
"Why, you seem not to be interested."
"Oh, yes," replied she indifferently.
"I remember, you didn't like him."
It almost seemed true to her. Or, rather, that she had never cared about him one way or the other.
"And he so mad about you," continued Richard with raillery. "I'll never forget the looks he used to give you—or the ones he gave me, either. Well, it's all over now. He's evidently cured."