He gazed at her exquisite pongee gown, her costly hat, the lace coat she carried upon her arm, and frowned.
“How could you take the poor child away like that? It must have broken his heart to leave all his things—his pony, and his boat, and all. Is he well? Have you taken good care of him? You know how careful I always am about what he has to eat.”
Donald’s frown deepened. “Bobbie is very well,” he said slowly. “It seems to me there is a bigger question between us than that.”
“Can there be any bigger question than Bobbie?” she asked.
He gazed at her for a few moments in moody silence. “Did you come here to tell me that?” he presently asked.
“No, Donald. I came to ask your forgiveness.”
“You know the conditions under which I will discuss the matter,” he interrupted.
“Yes. You blame me for taking this money. You want me to give it up. Don’t you know that all I have done has been for him?” She glanced significantly toward the door of the bedroom.
Donald stood for a moment in silence. He felt in this woman no sense of sorrow, of repentance, but only a stubborn insistence upon what she considered her rights.
“Was it for him that you agreed to abandon your home, your husband, and run away with another man?” he asked bitterly.