Burke was feeling very much abused these days. He was, indeed, thinking of himself and pitying himself almost constantly. The woman to whom he had given his name (and for whom he had sacrificed so much) had made that name a byword and a laughing stock in his native town. He was neither bachelor nor husband. He was not even a widower, but a nondescript thing to be pointed out as a sort of monster. Even his child was taken away from him; and was doubtless being brought up to hate him—Burke forgot that Dorothy Elizabeth was as yet but slightly over two years old.
As for Helen's side of the matter—Burke was too busy polishing his own shield of defense to give any consideration to hers. When he thought of his wife, it was usually only to say bitterly to himself: "Humph! When that ten thousand dollars is gone we'll hear from her all right!" And he was not worrying at all about her comfort—with ten thousand dollars to spend.
"She knows where she is, and she knows where I am," he would declare fiercely to himself. "When she gets good and ready she'll come—and not until then, evidently!"
In March a line from Dr. Gleason said that he would be in town a day or two, and would drop in to see them.
With the letter in his hand, Burke went to his father.
"Gleason's coming Friday," he announced tersely.
"Well?"
"We've got to settle on what to tell him."
"About—"
"Helen—yes. Of course—he'll have to know something; but—I shall tell him mighty little." Burke's lips snapped together in the grim manner that was becoming habitual with him.