“Temple?” interrupted Webster, quickly.
“Yes, John Temple; he was then a very young man, studying for the bar, but he never practiced, for he had some money, and he had no ambition. I think he thought I had spoiled his life.”
A physical pain seemed to thrill through Webster’s heart, and he bit his lips to hide his emotion.
“And,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “do you never see him? What is he like?”
“I have not seen him for these six years, but I know he is still in the land of the living, and that I am not entitled to a widow’s cap, for each six months his lawyer regularly sends me one hundred and fifty pounds. He allows me, in fact, three hundred a year, and perfect liberty. I do whatever I like.” And Kathleen Weir laughed a little bitterly.
“And you chose the stage?” said Ralph Webster, in a low tone.
“I was on the stage when he had what I suppose he calls the misfortune to marry me. He was a young fellow—barely twenty-one—and I was three years older. We lived together for about three years, principally abroad, and then he tired of it. That is, he had been tiring of it all the time; we did not pull together somehow.”
Ralph Webster drew a long breath.
“What is he like, I may have seen him?” he asked.
“Like? Good-looking, with gray eyes and a very taking manner when he chose. But to me he was often eminently disagreeable.”