A clock somewhere in the city struck the hour of midnight, and while the sound was still in the air, the door opened softly and Sally came into the room. She had slipped on a wrapper over her nightdress, and her hair, flattened and warmed by the pillow, hung in a single braid over her bosom. There were deep circles under her eyes, which shone the more brilliantly because of the heavy shadows.
"What is the matter, Ben? Why don't you come upstairs?"
"I couldn't sleep—I am thinking," I answered, almost roughly, oppressed by my weight of misery.
"Would you rather be alone? Shall I go away again?"
"Yes, I'd rather be alone."
She went silently to the door, stood there a minute, and then ran back with her arms outstretched.
"Oh, Ben, Ben, why are you so hard? Why are you so cruel?"
"Cruel? Hard? To you, Sally?"
"You treat me as if—as if I'd married you for your money and you've made me hate and despise it. I wish—I almost wish we hadn't a penny."
I laughed the bitter, mirthless laugh that had broken from me at dinner.