Titus had wooed a lady that loved him heart and soul and had married one that had come to love only herself. This was his own fault. Blanche Dudoy Guest was a darling, and he had spoiled her to death.
Their engagement had been childishly happy—a glorious summer of content. Then they were married less than a year ago, and instantly winter had set in.
Titus did what he could and, though he was no fool, made a pack of mistakes. This was easy. Blanche out of humour was the devil and all. The winter, which had never been kindly, began to grow harsh.
With it all, the man never lost heart.
He could not believe that his darling was gone for good, that the selfish woman of the world usurping her throne would not one day be dislodged. He told himself fiercely that one day summer would return—that peerless season when she had returned his love and had cared for the light in his eyes.
And now, for the first time since their marriage, Blanche had shown him affection though he brought her no gift. More. The darling had turned and rent the woman of the world.
It was the first swallow.
Summer was coming back.
When Titus re-entered the room, his wife, who was stroking the terrier, looked up with shining eyes.
“I’ve got it, old fellow,” she said. “I know what my trouble is. I’ve nothing to do.”