“Yes—perhaps he is. But he’s down town all day—I should only see him at dinner, and a little in the evening.”
“Don’t be ruthless, Katharine!” exclaimed John, with almost involuntary reproach in his tone.
“Ruthless?” she repeated. “I don’t understand. What is there that’s ruthless in that? I could see you so much more freely.”
“Why—don’t you know how it hurts—that sort of thing? To go and stay under the same roof with a man who loves you, when you know, and he knows, that you can never possibly love him?”
“I suppose it does,” answered Katharine, vaguely. “I hadn’t thought of that. But then, you know, Ham would never say anything, any more than if he knew we were married.”
“That just makes it so much the harder,” replied Ralston, smiling at her woman’s view of the case. “Don’t you see?”
“Well—of course, if you don’t want me to go, Jack, I won’t. I believe you’re jealous of Ham!” She laughed a little and looked at him lovingly.
“There’s no fear of that,” he said. “But he’s always been a good friend to me. I know what he’d suffer for those two or three days, though you can’t understand it, I suppose. I don’t want him to suffer on my account.”
“Oh, very well. It seemed simpler, that’s all. I dislike Walter Crowdie so—I can’t tell you! I thought of going to your house. I suppose you thought of it, too—but, of course, it wouldn’t do at all.” She laughed again, a little nervously this time.
“It’s not to be thought of,” answered Ralston, gravely.