"And I had almost got you back—when Fanny Carr, with her nasty view of me and what I was doing, brought you those perfectly rotten reports? And if you believe them, Joe, I'm through! Go to Nourse or to Sally Crothers, and they'll tell you I have spoken the truth. If you won't believe either them or me, go on alone without me—or else marry Fanny Carr. But if you do believe me and we're to go on together now, you'll have to drop Fanny for good and all, and leave Amy way behind. You'll have to take up your old friends and try to get Crothers into your firm. You may think your business is yours and not mine—but if it's my life, it's my business, too! It's like four walls around me now, and I want to break out and so do you—away from mere money! I've watched you, dear—seen what a struggle has gone on inside of you—it has worn you out! haven't you made money enough? Let's leave it, go to Paris, and get to work before it's too late for you to get back what you had! And if there's no money, never mind. It will come later on—but don't let's be afraid if it doesn't. Don't let's be afraid of pain—of fighting hard and suffering, Joe! I want more children! I want you! I want you mine, all mine, my dear—not her husband. Don't you see?"
She had been eagerly leaning toward him. Joe was staring into the fire; the look in his eyes had frightened her and made her hurry to be through.
"What is it?" she asked. And she waited a moment. "Don't you believe what I've told you, Joe?"
"Yes," he said, "I believe all that. I believe a good deal more than that." There was a little silence, and then suddenly he reached for her hand, held it tight and smiled into the fire in a twitching sort of way. "I haven't been quite as blind as you think. I've seen a good deal of what you were doing. But—" he frowned—"I'm older than you are. I know this job of mine clear through—way back to those dreams you spoke of. I've had some hard mean tussles about it—lately—and that's my only excuse for acting like a damn fool as I did—the other day. No use in talking of that any more—or of—Amy either. She's—dead."
"Joe!" Ethel whispered. Tears came in her eyes. He went steadily on:
"She had some fine points—you'll never know. There were things we needn't talk about now. But you've made me see things, too. I don't think she'll be in the way any more—I think we'll be able to speak of her."
"Of course! We must! I want to, dear!" Ethel's voice was shaking.
"Not now." With an effort he rose. "There's something else to worry about. You don't quite know me yet, you see."
"What do you mean?" She had risen, too, and caught his arm. "You're not well, Joe! You're white as a sheet!" He laughed a little.
"I'm not quite right. Something wrong in here, I guess." He pressed one hand to the base of his brain and scowled as though it hurt him. "Nothing serious, probably. But before it goes too far, I want you to know that when I get well I'm going to have a try at all that—the work you spoke of. I'm going to try—but I may be too late! I may be older than you think!" The tone of his voice was sharp and strained. "I don't know," he said. "The doctor may. About him—that's another point! It's a nerve specialist we need! Telephone your doctor and have him send one here tonight! I'm sorry, Ethel—damnably!"