"Father asked us to dinner next Sunday; but—I said I didn't think we could go. I told him you weren't feeling well. I didn't think you'd want to go; and—I didn't want to go myself."
Helen frowned and pouted.
"Well, I've got my opinion of folks who refuse an invitation without even asking 'em if they want to go," she bridled. "Not that I mind much, in this case, though,—if it's just a dinner. I thought once, maybe he meant something—that he was giving in, you know. But I haven't seen any signs of that. And as for just going to dinner—I can't say I am 'specially anxious for that—mean as I feel now."
"No, I thought not," said Burke.
And there the matter ended. As the summer passed, Burke fell into the way of going often to see his father, though never at meal-time. He went alone. Helen said she did not care to go, and that she did not see what fun Burke could find in it, anyway.
To Burke, these hours that he spent with his father chatting and smoking in the dim old library, or on the vine-shaded veranda, were like a breeze blowing across the desert of existence—like water in a thirsty land. From day to day he planned for these visits. From hour to hour he lived upon them.
To all appearances John Denby and his son had picked up their old comradeship exactly where the marriage had severed it. Even to Burke's watchful, sensitive eyes the "wall" seemed quite gone. There was, however, one difference: mother was never mentioned. John Denby never spoke of her now.
There was plenty to talk about. There were all the old interests, and there was business. Burke was giving himself heart and soul to business these days. In July he won another promotion, and was given an advance in wages. Often, to Burke's infinite joy, his father consulted him about matters and things quite beyond his normal position, and showed in other ways his approval of his son's progress. Helen, the marriage, and the Dale Street home life were never mentioned—for which Burke was thankful.
"He couldn't say anything I'd want to hear," said Burke to himself, at times. "And I—I can't say anything he wants to hear. Best forget it—if we can."
To "forget it" seemed, indeed, in these days, to be Burke's aim and effort. Always had Burke tried to forget things. From the day his six-months-old fingers had flung the offending rattle behind him had Burke endeavored to thrust out of sight and mind everything that annoyed—and Helen and marriage had become very annoying. Systematically, therefore, he was trying to forget them. His attitude, indeed, was not unlike that of a small boy who, weary of his game of marbles, cries, "Oh, come, let's play something else. I'm tired of this!"—an attitude which, naturally, was not conducive to happiness, either for himself or for any one else—particularly as the game he was playing was marriage, not marbles.