Her health began to fail. The irregular life, the fantastic meals Lawrence insisted upon, the noisy parties which kept her up night after night until almost dawn, the unceasing anxiety and unhappiness were too much for her. She did her very best; she was kind, patient, and loyal; she struggled to stifle her dreadful regrets, her disillusionment, she clung desperately to the one belief that kept her from absolute despair, the belief that she was indispensable, that Lawrence needed her and could not do without her.
He had singularly few friends. He knew almost every artist of reputation, but casually. He had been engrossed in his desire to enter society, and he hadn’t troubled much with his colleagues. His chief object in “entering society” had been to find a rich wife; and although he knew that any such thing would now have been impossible, still he blamed Rosaleen in his heart.
At last he had started this infernal “borrowing.” And Rosaleen had consented. It outraged her pride, her self-respect, her dignity; but it didn’t seem wicked to her. She thought that perhaps it was her duty to sacrifice this pride and self-respect for the sake of her husband. One man after the other....
Landry interrupted her.
“Didn’t they ever make love to you?” he asked, brutally. “Didn’t they expect anything in return? Or were they all fools—like me?”
“I hardly know!” she said, wearily. “I never bothered.... I only had to get money....”
“Which you knew you couldn’t repay. That didn’t bother you either, did it?”
“Yes, it did! But I always hoped and hoped that some day I could, in some way. Mr. Landry, what was I to do?”
“There are women who’d rather die than be dishonourable.”
Her pale face flushed again.