“Yes,” he answered. “I have read it.”
She stared at him, heavy-eyed, still dull of apprehension. There was a short silence. She struggled into a sitting posture; by degrees her memory and consciousness returned.
“I don’t care if you have,” she declared. “Put it in the envelope and post it. It would have been on the way now if Mary hadn’t brought in the whisky. It’s what you want, ain’t it? You’ll be quit of me then, and you can go to her.”
He tore the letter across and flung it into the fire. She watched it burn idly.
“I don’t know why you’ve done that,” she said wearily. “You know you want to be free. I don’t know as I blame you. I saw you with her to-night.”
“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.
“Just that. I took Mary to the St. James’, and coming back we stopped to watch the people driving by. She’s very beautiful, Enoch, and she’s your sort. I ain’t.”
There was a silence. Their eyes met, and the hopeless misery in her face went to his heart like a knife. In that moment he realized how only salvation could come to her. He saw her suddenly with a great pity and beyond her all the great underneath millions he wanted to help. The moment was like a flash of light. He crossed the room and sat down by her side.
“Milly,” he said gently, “let us try and talk like sensible people. I am afraid I haven’t been a very good husband to you, and this sort of thing”—he touched the decanter—“has got to be stopped. Now tell me how we are to turn over a new leaf. What would you like to do?”
She drew a little breath which became a sob.